The World s Shortest Courtship
by Chapucera
Summary: Erik Darrow, obsessed with Christine Daaé, exploits her most vulnerable moment in order to sweep her off her feet and into matrimony. Now Christine must start from scratch to get to know her new husband. Modern day.
1. Chapter 1

I don´t own POTO; just borrowing the characters.

Christine Daaé balanced two bags of groceries against one hip as she groped for her house keys. She could hear the faint noise of the television; Raoul was home, then, she thought, and she sighed in relief. She would have dinner on in an hour, and since she had the night off, perhaps she and Raoul would have some quiet time alone, then some intimate time.

Perhaps she had a chance to win back his love.

As she made her way through the door and into the kitchen, she thought of the irony of the situation. She had sold herself, really, the day she had let Raoul talk her into moving in with him.

* * *

"I love you, Christine," Raoul had said, holding her gently in his arms. "I want us to be together, and I can´t stand the thought of you living alone in that apartment. Anything could happen to you! I´m sure your father was worried about that, too," he added.

Christine had felt the customary pang at the mention of her father. It had been six months since his death, and the pain had not lessened as she had hoped it would. She had spent so much time caring for him during the last six years. James Daaé had been in and out of the hospital so many times, and Christine had taken so much time off to care for him, especially when he had finally entered the hospice, that she had forgotten about herself completely. When her father died, she felt as if she had lost the most important battle of her life. She had looked in the bathroom mirror when she finally left his side, and she could hardly say who the person was who had looked back at her, or what her life – alone, with nobody to care for – might be.

"My father didn´t have enough strength to worry about anything but his own fight at the last, Raoul," Christine had replied with a sad smile. Then she had gathered her thoughts.

"You know, Raoul, I always thought it best that a couple should get married before they move in together. I´m old-fashioned, maybe, but I´ve always felt that that was what was right -- for me, at least."

It went even deeper than that for Christine. She had been so involved with her father´s troubles over the past few years, that she had not been involved with boys – at all. She had graduated high school, and now was in her junior year at university, with her virginity intact – a shameful situation, socially, wherever men were concerned. When Raoul had reemerged in her life several months earlier, she had been ecstatic that someone who finally understood her – they had been children together, after all – was now in her life. Raoul had been everything to her after her father´s death – he was everything that was warm, kind, and caring. He and Christine had become inseparable, and yet he never had pressured her. And now he was asking her to live with him.

"Christine," Raoul had replied, after seeming to consider her misgivings, "You know that you and I are forever. You know that. I would never leave you. You know that, too. Our love is stronger than any promises or any piece of paper! Anyway, we can go through the marriage thing in a few years, when we´re ready. With you still in school now and me with a brand-new job it´s just not practical. But I need you to be with me now, I really do, and you know I´ve really been patient, honey, so far…"

And Christine, frightened of losing Raoul, had agreed to move in with him.

* * *

Raoul came into the kitchen to get a beer just as Christine was putting the chicken into the oven.

"Hey," he said, as she hurried over to kiss him, "I didn´t hear you come in, honey. How´s it going?"

"My classes went fine," she said, after a moment´s hesitation. She wasn´t sure how much she could tell Raoul at such a delicate point in their relationship. So strange: when they had only been dating, she had been able to talk with Raoul about anything, or so it seemed. Now, she was frightened to talk about the increased role her voice tutor had claimed in her life, and how very _strange_ her voice classes had become. Raoul wouldn´t want to hear about her issues – he was working hard to adapt to his new job and social pressures. She knew he was also working hard to resist the pressure from his family.

* * *

"So, you may be living with Christine, but she doesn´t own you, bro," Phil had said the first time he had visited. He had been trying to convince Raoul to hit the town with Tracy, Chelsea, and himself. Christine had to go to work that evening – _how convenient for you, Phil, _she had thought to herself. Phil did not intend his conversation with Raoul to be overheard by Christine, but he did not care if she could hear it, either. Christine arranged four beers and chips and dip on a tray and struggled through the kitchen door with it.

"Hi, I´m Christine," she said, as she offered the beers to Tracy and Chelsea.

"Oh, uh, yeah…This is Tracy, my girlfriend, and this is her friend, Chelsea," said Phil, remembering his manners as he turned to collect his beer. Tracy and Chelsea broke off their conversation, smiled sweetly at Christine – "Oh, hiyee!" But it took all of one second for them to gaze appraisingly at Christine, taking in her hair and her clothes, then to dismiss her as they turned to continue their intimate chat together. _I´m not here; I don´t exist_, thought Christine with a touch of bitterness. Tracy and Chelsea were a superior species, she knew. Both were in sororities, both wore expensive clothes, with hairstyles and highlights which cost a fortune by Christine´s standards. She knew without asking that both Tracy and Chelsea had cars given to them by their fathers – the only question was whether the brand was BMW or Mercedes. She glanced at the girls´ manicured nails, and felt ashamed of her own. But she was a pianist, for gosh sakes, so she couldn´t even consider having nails like those! Speaking of which, she was going to be late to work.

"Look, Raoul, I´ve got to go now," Christine said then, adding, "Go on and have fun if you´d like. I´d hate for you to miss out just on my account." She was aware of a swift, calculating glance from Chelsea as she said that, but she managed to ignore it with aplomb.

"Honey, I just don´t want to go with them," Raoul responded with a good-natured smile. "Nice try, bro," he said as he turned to Phil, "But I´m staying home tonight."

"A regular hearth-rat," sneered Phil. He didn´t even glance at Christine.

"Yeah, a regular hearth-rat," agreed Raoul with a grin.

* * *

That had been several months ago. Phil continued to visit regularly, alone or with Tracy and Chelsea, but Raoul´s parents never materialized, even though they lived just across town. Christine had encouraged Raoul to invite them to dinner or just for drinks, but the only reaction she received was a nervous change of subject. It was clear to Christine that Chelsea was Phil´s idea of the perfect girl for Raoul, and she surmised that Raoul´s parents agreed with him.

Raoul, who had been so supportive, warm and kind, so quick with a kiss or hug, had gradually lost interest in Christine over the months. It was true his new job at the accounting firm was demanding and he was often tired, but his job and pressure from his family could only account for part of his cool demeanor. _I´m like a Victorian parlor-maid, bedded and discarded, _thought Christine as she dressed the salad.

As disappointed as Raoul might have been with Christine in the bedroom, Christine was even more dejected. She had expected the first time to be unpleasant – and it certainly was – but she had hoped that things would improve. They had not. Christine blamed herself – she must be hopelessly frigid. However, the voice of reason whispered to her occasionally, and told her that Raoul perhaps did not understand _her_ needs. She knew that he and all the other guys in his fraternity had been into porn, and now she felt that its influence had left Raoul incapable of making love – he could only offer sex, and it was centered on his own needs. Christine had done her best to accommodate Raoul, and she always tried out all the new positions and quirks he wanted her to. She always feigned enthusiasm, but the truth was that sex was just another chore.

And speaking of chores…Christine had quickly realized that she would be the one doing all the cleaning and the laundry. She enjoyed cooking, thanks to her best friend, Meg, but she had hoped not to be doing _all_ of it. Christine was the one who did all the grocery shopping, who pored over the utilities bills and phone bills to correct any errors before she paid her half. She found that the solitary life she had led in her apartment had actually been cheaper and easier than her life with Raoul. It simply never occurred to him to help out with the grocery bill. Thank God he paid his own VISA bills, what with his expensive tastes, she mused. She had spent a great deal of time wondering how he had kept his apartment clean before she came to live with him, and she found out by accident that his parents had sent a maid to sort out his messes once a week; they no longer sent her over, however, when Christine started living with Raoul.

* * *

Christine presented dinner as attractively as possible, lit a candle, and called Raoul. He gave her a warm smile and complimented her on her cooking as he ate. After dinner, while Raoul was watching TV, Christine went into the bedroom and took out the sexy negligee she had splurged on. She slipped into it, and checked herself in the mirror. The effect, she decided, was pleasing. She presented herself to Raoul, then, and was rewarded with half an hour of his undivided attention. She dedicated every ounce of energy to pleasing him, and when they had finished, she turned to Raoul. His eyes were closed.

"I love you, Raoul," she said. _Please love me back. _She waited. Silence. He was asleep.

Christine wept.


	2. Chapter 2

I don´t own POTO.

* * *

"We don´t seem to be concentrating very well this morning, do we?" said Mrs. Geary irritably, touching her hearing aid slightly. She seemed to be in pain.

Christine nodded unhappily. She had only sung scales and Marchesi _vocalises _that morning,but the night before was seeping into her technique. She normally looked forward to her classes with Mrs. Geary, strange as it was to take lessons from – of all people – a ballet instructor who wore a hearing aid. Mrs. Geary had proved to be remarkably competent as a vocal instructor, and Christine could not recognize her own voice, as great as her progress had been after only five months. But, today, Christine´s sadness over her relationship with Raoul colored everything.

The door opened, and Meg, Mrs. Geary´s daughter, stuck her head in the office.

"Done yet?" she inquired with a smile, and Christine couldn´t help but smile back.

"Yes, I believe we´re done for the morning," said Mrs. Geary, grimly. "Christine is in some type of a pit today, I think, and she shows no sign of climbing out of it."

"You okay, Girlfriend?" said Meg, concern showing on her pretty face.

"Yeah, I´m okay, just your typical guy problems," said Christine, with as big a smile as she could muster. Mrs. Geary winced and gripped her hearing aid. She had the odd habit of touching it from time to time.

"Raoul, huh?" chirped Meg. "I see him at the Vasco occasionally, when he goes out to lunch. Co-workers with him, mostly. I think he has a pretty high-pressure job, from the look of things." The Vasco was the high-end restaurant where Meg worked as chef, a career which she adored, in spite of the pressure. "So, what´s Mr. Raouly-Bo done to ruffle your fur?" she asked.

"Oh, Meg, I really shouldn´t complain. He´s so very sweet, really. It´s just that he doesn´t seem to be _with _me anymore, if you know what I mean. And this living together business…"

"Was a mistake!" snapped Mrs. Geary. Both Christine and Meg turned to her in surprise, speechless. Mrs. Geary had always been the soul of self-discipline and self-control, never expressing herself with extreme emotion. Up until now. She seemed to recover herself, though, and said, softly, "Christine, you don´t need a man who doesn´t appreciate you, childhood friend or not. Raoul pressured you into living with you at a time when you were grieving. That in itself was unforgivable. His behaviour since then merits nothing more than reproach. And Christine…" Mrs. Geary added, moving closer to her, her voice dropping, "If you continue to live with that boy, the consequences could be terrible indeed."

Both Christine and Meg seemed stunned, but Mrs. Geary moved to a table at the opposite side of the room, glancing at the full-length mirror on the wall as she passed. She turned, holding a red rose, which she presented to Christine.

"No, it´s not from me," she said with a slight smile as Christine started to give her bewildered thanks. "Somebody else wanted you to have this."

"May I ask…?"

"No," said Mrs. Geary firmly.

* * *

"Come on, Christine, you don´t have classes until afternoon, right?" asked Meg, looking at her watch. "I´ve come up with a salmon creation that´s awesome, and I want you to see how it´s done; you´ll be bumming around the Vasco kitchen with me this morning," she said, taking a still-bewildered Christine by the arm.

"Okay, conFESS!…What did you do to my poor mother this morning to make her so creepy?" asked Meg as she unlocked her ´99 Honda.

"I guess I must have been shrieking," sighed Christine, as she fingered her rose. "I did have a bad morning," she said, feeling slightly ashamed.

"The morning after the night before, clearly," said Meg, glancing at her. "My creepy mother is right about one thing, sweetie, and that´s that Raoul doesn´t appreciate what he has. Have you ever thought of just cutting your losses and leaving him? I have a sofa with your name on it if you ever decide to do that," said Meg.

Christine didn´t reply. Anything she could have said would have been in tears, not words.

Meg glanced at her and changed the subject. "But, getting back to dear old Mom, has she been acting weird around you on other occasions? I mean, she is under a lot of stress, what with supervising the Cit´s ballet corps, and now your singing lessons….You know what´s really weird? I never knew she knew _anything_ about Voice, or about opera, but she _has _worked at the City Opera for years…Still, it never seemed to interest her – just dance. And now she wants to make you an opera star!"

"I´ve never understood it myself," said Christine. "And now, this," she added, holding up the rose for Meg´s inspection.

"I suppose you have a secret admirer, Girlfriend," said Meg. "Is that the first time she´s delivered a gift like that?"

"Yeah," said Christine, smiling. "In fact, I watch my stuff very carefully in her office, ever since the Case of the Disappearing Apple. I´m more apt to lose things than be gifted with them."

"Disappearing apple?" prompted Meg.

"Yeah. One day I come, as usual, to my Voice lesson with your mom, and I´m crunching on an apple…"

"What kind of an apple?" asked Meg.

"Um, a Fuji, maybe…Oh, what does THAT matter?" said Christine.

"To a chef, such things always matter," said Meg haughtily. "Pray continue."

"Well, I parked the apple on that table you saw at the end of the room, half-eaten, of course. Then your mom and I go through the lesson as usual – well, better than usual, because she was pretty easy on me that day. Then, when I go to the table to collect my apple, it´s _gone_! And nobody had entered or left that room, I swear to you, Meg!"

"Ooooh, weird," said Meg, with a grin. Then her expression sobered.

"That…hearing aid she was wearing today. Does she always wear it when she instructs you?" asked Meg.

"Yeah, Meg. Why?"

"Nothing, nothing," Meg said dismissively. But she was no longer smiling.

* * *

Christine spent a delightful morning working in the kitchen with Meg and learning all about her theories on salmon and other foods. She cut up onions and peppers for her and laughed at Meg´s take on her last blind date, who was completely rude, "and had a face like THIS!" chortled Meg as she thrust the head of an anglerfish in Christine´s face. Then the conversation turned to the Greene Street Soup Station, a pay-as-you-can soup kitchen where both Meg and Christine were regular volunteers on Sundays.

"You know everybody always says how gorgeous you are, Girlfriend," said Meg, grinning, but then her grin faded. "And there´s that regular at the soup kitchen. Have you noticed him? He just sits there and stares at you, then leans against the wall and stares at you – just you, Christine. It´s kind of creepy. I mean, he´s gorgeous, but then there´s that mask he´s wearing, and the feeling he gives you that he doesn´t want you near him. And his clothes…it´s weird. They´re scuffed and casual, but those trousers he was wearing last Sunday cost a small fortune – I know. But you do know the guy I´m telling you about, sweetheart?" she asked.

"No, not at all," said Christine, completely confused now. "But I guess I had my mind on what I was doing," she added, as she noticed a shiver go down her spine.

"Yeah," mused Meg. "You´ve never noticed the guys who look at you, or the way they look at you. Which is probably how you ended up with Raoul."

* * *

Later, Christine left the restaurant through the front in order to catch a bus back to campus. As she glanced at one of the tables, her heart lurched. There, enjoying the salads she had helped make, were Raoul, his parents, and Chelsea.


	3. Chapter 3

I do not own POTO.

* * *

The rest of the day passed in a painful blur. Christine attended her classes and half-listened to the lectures presented. She would be graduating with a degree in Finance in a few months. In spite of all that life had thrown at her, her grades were very good, since she was, as Mrs. Geary called her, "a quick study" and also used her time wisely.

Mrs. Geary! She would never understand her. She had always been "Meg´s mom" to her until she had sought her out, urging her to come to the City Opera, where she worked, to take Voice lessons 5 mornings a week. Mrs. Geary had insisted – her voice had the potential to be great, she said. _But you´ve never heard me sing, _Christine had protested in bewilderment. _You have been heard_, Mrs. Geary had responded simply. So, Christine´s voice was being trained, under Geary´s strict tutelage, and an old dream of her father´s was finally being realized. Free of charge, too, since Mrs. Geary refused Christine´s offers to pay.

And speaking of money….Christine was scheduled to work at Winslow´s Bistro tonight. Years of studying and practice had made her a very good, if not brilliant, pianist, and she had a knack for accompaniment. So, the waiters, generally Voice majors, would enjoy the limelight and sing while Christine happily accompanied on piano. Sometimes Christine would sing and play, if everyone else was busy. Christine´s paycheck was good, but her tips were phenomenal, especially if she played a lot of requests. Four nights working out of the week, especially Fridays and Saturdays, were enough to keep her (and Raoul, she thought bitterly) from starving. Today was Friday.

* * *

Raoul was late coming home from work, Christine noticed as she finished making dinner. Six o´clock and no sign of him. It happened sometimes, and tonight she was glad of it. She was not sure she could face him without crying. Fortunately, he had not seen her at the Vasco, and, if only she could calm down, she could forget it and soldier on….

* * *

Seven o´clock found Christine at Winslow´s. She was happy to plunge into her work, and gratefully played without breaks tonight. Jen, one of the waiters, seemed to sense her mood and kept serving her sodas, eyeing her solicitously from time to time. Finally, at about 2 in the morning, at the end of the evening, Jen presented Christine with a glass of Port. "It´s not from me, it´s from that gentleman over there," Jen said. "He´d like you to join him. He´s extremely polite," she added, and gestured toward the darkest corner of the restaurant.

Christine looked, and from her perspective, she could barely discern the figure of a man – tall, rather slender, and elegant, from what she could see of his clothing; his hair was nearly shoulder-length, dark, and carefully combed. And then he turned his gaze upon her, and she saw, first, a white half-mask – then, impossible as it seemed, the fiery glow of a pair of eyes, gold and implacable, as they fixed on her. She felt a warmth color her cheeks, and she breathed in deeply. She had often been invited by male customers to share drinks, and up until now, she had always refused. This time, however, she made her way into the man´s corner. He gave her a slight bow and pulled out a chair for her.

"Christine," he said, and his voice was warm, liquid, as golden as his eyes. The beauty of it filled her senses, and she glanced at the glass of Port she had put on the table. No, she hadn´t touched it yet!

"Thank you for the wine," said Christine, as the man seated himself gracefully near her.

"You´re very welcome," he said, his eyes fixed on hers. He himself had been enjoying a glass of Cognac, and he cradled it in one hand. Christine could not help noticing how beautiful his long fingers were, and how graceful his every gesture was.

"You know my name," prompted Christine, hoping for something in the way of an introduction. His unrelenting stare was causing a warmth to pool within her, and she felt an intimacy with him which unnerved her.

"Forgive me. My name is Erik. Erik Darrow," he said. Christine, lost as she was in Erik´s voice, found that his name registered a certain familiarity. "You might be wondering," he continued, "how it is I know your name. I will not deceive you; I have been your friend for a good number of months now, unbeknownst to you. June Geary has been a delightful help to me in keeping myself anonymous, but I find that giving you Voice lessons with her as my proxy has, at this point, become impossible. To progress with you – now, at your advanced level – I need to instruct you myself, with no more subterfuges. You have great potential, Christine. Indeed, you are already great, although you are unaware of it. There is so much you are unaware of," he added, almost pensively, and his hand brushed Christine´s cheek. She felt a flood of heat at the contact, and she could only gaze at Erik, speechless with amazement.

Erik smiled slightly. "Drink your Port, Christine," he said in a low voice, and she quickly downed half the glass.

He leaned forward. "There is more, of course, so much more…Drink the rest, now, that´s it. I have watched you these many weeks I have been barking into poor June´s ear in order to correct your pitch and posture, but I was watching you long before your classes began. The first time I saw you, shortly after the death of your father, was in this very place. I listened to you as you played and improvised here, and imagined what changes I could make to improve your technique. Then I noticed your beauty, and I was lost, but I quickly despaired of ever daring to approach you. I am eccentric at best. But then you sealed your fate, my love – you don´t mind if I take the liberty of calling you that, Christine?"

Christine shook her head, trying desperately to keep the room from spinning. Should one glass of Port have had that effect on her? She felt Erik´s hand touch hers, then grasp it. His face was very near hers now.

"You sang. Your voice was like a soul laid bare to me, and how I loved that soul! I knew, then, that I could never rest until I heard it every day, until I was near you every day. Have you never seen me haunting the places you go, dreaming of you even as I watched you? No, you never knew. You yielded to that boy, you loved that boy, and I was driven to such despair over it that only dear June´s intervention saved me. And thank God!

"I speak to you now, because now I have hope. Your boy has enslaved you and forgotten you, and now you are desolate. Know that there is one who hungers for your love as no man ever has, and whose desire is to keep you always, to care for you forever. I wish to be your husband, Christine…."

Christine listened to Erik´s words with clarity, and could not help the warmth with which she reacted to them. Yet the Port had taken its toll, and she could feel a type of greyness descending on her. She was just conscious enough of her situation to feel panicked.

She heard Erik, more distant now. "I fear you are indisposed. I will take you home…" Then everything went black.


	4. Chapter 4

I don´t own POTO.

* * *

Christine woke up late the next morning, and, blinking, took in her situation. The bed she was in was completely strange, though luxurious. King-sized, with black satin sheets and comforter. The musky smell of expensive men´s cologne, mixed with the earthy smell of a man, seemed to permeate the sheets and some of the air. With a start, Christine realized that she was completely nude, and her body told her, in no uncertain terms, that she had been intimate with a man. She moaned, regret and anxiety filling her mind.

She had not been drunk last night; Erik had drugged her, she knew. Aside from some fairly tremendous post-coital soreness, Christine felt well, however. No headache, no nausea. No sign of Erik, either.

Memory slowly flooded back as Christine sat on the edge of the bed, quietly regarding her clothes from last night, which were now neatly folded on a nearby chair. Perhaps she had been drugged, but she had been somewhat conscious, and she had consented completely….that much, she remembered. She went into the bathroom and glanced at herself in the mirror, then stared. Her neck – and other parts of her – were red and purple with love bites, and now they were complemented by the pink background her blush provided them. Oh, she remembered, now. Erik had never stopped speaking love to her, and she was shocked to think how fervently, how urgently, she had reacted to his words and to his touch, how much she had enjoyed her time with him. _So this was what it was like when a man made love_, she thought. He had told her things so soul-baringly intimate that she blushed to remember them. She remembered, too, the mangled face that had been revealed to her when he had removed his mask, and how she had caressed it and leaned in for more kisses. "You are more than I ever dared to hope," Erik had murmured, then.

_Yes, _agreed Christine, _I am so much more in a one-night stand than a man ever hoped for! _And where was Erik? Spurred on by sudden anger – mostly with herself -- and a feeling of abandonment, she showered quickly, dressed, and left the flat. As she left the building, she realized that she was in a rather stylish part of the city – definitely the high-rent district – and she wondered where the nearest bus-stop was. But where would she go? She was afraid to go back home to Raoul. God knows what he was thinking by now…She rummaged in her purse for her cellphone, and checked her memory for Mrs.Geary´s number. As she flipped through the alphabet to arrive at "G," a new entry under "E" caught her attention. "Erik: cell," it said, and a number was provided beneath. She continued to scroll. "Erik: house in H.," read the next entry, and so on, for a total of 18 different phone numbers, ending with "Erik: work." She was tempted to try one of Erik´s numbers, but her courage failed her. She needed to talk with Mrs. Geary. She needed some answers.

"Yes, Christine, can you make it out to my office at the Cit? I´ll see you there," Mrs. Geary said in rather clipped tones over the phone. "Wait…." Christine heard a shuffling noise, then a murmur, and then, after what seemed an eternity, Mrs. Geary´s voice was back on the line. "Christine? Please wait in front of the apartment building. A limousine will pick you up in 5 minutes."

"A limo?...Mrs. Geary," Christine started, but Mrs. Geary had hung up. In three minutes, rather than five, a limousine pulled up beside Christine, who had decided to trudge down the street until she found a bus stop. She stopped and gawked as the driver rushed out and opened the door. "Please, Miss Daaé, get in, and I´ll take you wherever you want," the driver invited, smiling. Christine, lost in the intrigue of the situation, got into the limo. "Could you take me to the City Opera and Ballet, please?" asked Christine. The driver gave her a thumbs-up and drove on.

* * *

Upon arriving at Mrs. Geary´s office door, Christine hesitated before finally knocking, questions flying through her mind. She was convinced, by this time, that she was the object of an elaborately cruel practical joke. Mrs. Geary opened the door, but it was not she who captured Christine´s attention, but the man who had been seated behind her and was now standing and regarding Christine with his intense amber gaze. Erik remained silent, though, while Mrs. Geary spoke to Christine.

"Christine, I know you have questions for me. First of all, let me apologize for being less than honest with you. I have known Erik for years, however, and he only wanted you to have the best, so I was glad to serve as an instrument of your advancement. I can promise you, too, that everything Erik has told you about our arrangement is true. He has been communicating with me with the help of my receiver" -- here, Mrs. Geary showed Christine the "hearing aid" she had in the palm of her hand --"for years. He really runs the Cit, you know, but his reclusive nature demands that he stay out of sight. Thus, built-in architectural devices – of his own design – have been his ally, as well as electronic devices. I do believe, however, that Erik has exposed himself more in the past few months that he has been observing you than in the rest of his life combined," said Mrs. Geary.

Mrs. Geary would have continued, but Erik interrupted.

"Please," he said. "I should like to have a few moments alone with Christine."

Mrs. Geary nodded and left, closing the door firmly behind her. Christine turned to look at Erik, and was astonished to find him inches in front of her, suddenly. She was suddenly embarrassingly conscious of the clothes she was wearing – the same casual pants and sweater that she had worn to work the evening before. Erik, though, appeared to take no notice of that, and simply gazed at her tenderly.

"I apologize for leaving you alone this morning, Christine. I had calculated that you would remain asleep much longer than you did. I was very conservative with the dose I administered you, it seems, but I did not want you to suffer any lingering effects."

"Why did you drug me?" asked Christine. She tried to call up a feeling of outrage, yet the warmth in Erik´s eyes prevented it completely.

"It was completely necessary for you to relax and lose all inhibitions, Christine. I would never have gotten anywhere with you if you had been your usual responsible, controlled self. You would have left me and gone to that boy, and nothing I might have said would have changed that. Now, you see, events have worked in our favor, my love. I now have the privilege of your complete and undivided attention. You know my heart, and I know yours, even if you are slow in acknowledging what it tells you. I have made my intentions plain to you. I do not play games, nor do I care for convention; I do not wish to wait," finished Erik, and he produced two boxes seemingly out of nowhere. "I left your side this morning to collect the rings I ordered for us."

And, opening one of the boxes, Erik extracted the ring above the platinum wedding band. It was an engagement ring set with a simple aquamarine gem, so pale that the blue was barely discernible. He held Christine´s hand in his gentle grasp and slipped it onto her ring finger.

"It´s lovely," she breathed, and then she fixed her attention on the wedding ring which remained in the box, then looked at the unopened box. "Your wedding band?" she asked, pointing. "Yes," Erik whispered, opening the box. His larger platinum band matched hers perfectly. Christine felt a wave of tenderness as she looked at the rings in their boxes, and as she felt the engagement ring on her finger – a perfect fit. Erik had planned this – she did not know for how long. She felt as though she had known Erik for years, as if she had longed for him all her life.

Erik, who had been observing Christine´s pensive silence with an increasing air of satisfaction, now produced a piece of paper – a form, meticulously filled in. It already bore his signature. "Sign this, Christine," he said. She looked at it: a marriage license.

"I have made all the arrangements. We will be married by a judge this afternoon, at four. We have very little time, so I will have Joseph rush the paperwork through while you dress and freshen up in your suite."

Christine signed the license almost automatically, fairly stunned. It was becoming increasingly clear that the limousine and the flat in the expensive part of the city were not part of some elaborate joke. Erik was wealthy. Christine looked down at her shoes, embarrassed – yet again – by the threadbare quality of all her worldly goods.

"My suite?" she repeated, softly, and looked up to meet Erik´s eyes. He was frowning now, slightly, and had obviously been observing the emotions which had played across Christine´s face.

"Yes, you have a suite at our house in the Hilldale Division. I think you´ll find it quite complete, and I am looking forward to seeing you wear some of the clothes June and I bought for you. Christine, what crossed your mind just now?" Erik asked, looking at her carefully. "Just now, when you were looking at your shoes," he added, to clarify.

Christine blushed. "I…was thinking that I don´t measure up. Economically, I mean. You seem to have a good deal of money, Erik, and doesn´t money usually marry money? And maybe someday you´ll come to regret…"

"No," snapped Erik, cutting her off abruptly. He held her then, enfolding her in his arms firmly. His face was so close all Christine could take in were his eyes looking into hers. Something in them caused a tear to escape her, then another…

He kissed her then, deeply and tenderly – not with the passionate harshness of the night before. Still, it left Christine weak, breathless – and certain of him.

As they left the building to enter the waiting limousine, only one unpleasant thought nagged at Christine: _Whatever will I do about Raoul?_


	5. Chapter 5

I´d like to thank the two souls -- two! -- who took the time and trouble to review this story so far. I´m in Heaven if this story appeals to anyone at all! Armed with that encouragement, I´ve uploaded yet another chapter.

I don´t own POTO, or its characters.

* * *

The house Erik had mentioned in the exclusive Hilldale Division turned out to be a renovated Victorian mansion. The décor alone took Christine´s breath away, and as he guided her through the house on a rapid tour, his arm around her waist, she felt somewhat overwhelmed. There were several servants in evidence, and when they arrived at the living room, she noticed the flowers – bouquets and bouquets of flowers, decorating the entire room with creamy, connubial whiteness. Erik smiled and directed satisfied comments at one of the servants standing by, and the man beamed.

"Permit me to tell you, sir, how very happy I – how happy we all are for you," said the man, who Erik rapidly introduced to Christine as Johnston.

"I´ll introduce you to the rest of the servants later," said Erik, as he escorted Christine upstairs to her suite. He opened the door, and Christine gasped with the beauty of the room. It was decorated in tones of blue and cream, colors she loved. A bed and several wardrobes dominated the room. On a clotheshorse in the middle of the room was the most beautiful wedding dress she had ever seen. She approached it and stroked the white satin with a hesitant fingertip, noting that a slight layer of dust had settled on the dress. How long had it been here waiting for her?

Erik checked his watch. "Let Amy and Joan help you with your preparations," he said. "They´ll be here in a minute." And he was gone.

* * *

Amy and Joan did come in -- armed with hairdryers, pins, creams, and makeup. The first thing they did was exclaim over how they were going to hide the love-bites on Christine´s neck. She gasped. She had nearly forgotten about those! After a traumatic two hours during which Christine was coiffed, decked with pearl jewelry and made up to perfection, she stood before the full-length mirror. She was amazed by the effect, and she hoped that Erik would be, too. "Now you wait until we call you," said Joan, and she and Amy disappeared downstairs.

Christine decided to explore the suite prepared for her. She opened the wardrobes and found them filled with clothes of all kinds. The dresser draws were filled with elegant underpinnings of all kinds, hosiery, and lingerie. Atop the dresser was a tray holding a vast variety of rather expensive-looking perfumes. There were hair ornaments and pins of all kinds on the other side of the dresser. She wondered how many people it had taken to assemble all of these items, and how she could begin to thank Erik for his thoughtfulness. Just then, Joan tapped lightly on the door. "Time for the bride," she murmured.

Christine descended the staircase to the sound of the wedding march played on the grand piano. She took in the guests: servants, mostly, some business associate´s of Erik´s, and – Meg and her mother! Meg was wearing a knowing smile, and Christine knew their next conversation was going to be an interesting one. Her eyes, then, fixed on Erik, who was nearly laughing with joy as he watched her come towards him. His best man, a gentleman of Middle Eastern complexion, smiled in warm approval.

Erik and Christine exchanged vows before Judge Olsen in a civil ceremony that Erik regarded as a binding prelude to an even more serious Catholic rite. "We´ll have to meet with a priest for several weeks, of course, but in a few weeks we´ll be married in a rite that every Christian church in the world will honor," Erik had said.

When the final vows had been exchanged and Erik had kissed Christine – somewhat chastely, with an audience to subdue him – the guests came forward with their congratulations, and Christine was introduced to many of Erik´s servants and business associates. Erik´s best man, Nadir, stood out among the guests. He took advantage of a moment during which Erik was surrounded by servants in a congratulatory mood, and he guided Christine to a quiet corner.

"I had hardly ever seen Erik smile before today," Nadir told Christine quietly. He took Christine in with his gaze, and she was uncomfortably reminded of the quick-examination-and-flunk which Chelsea had subjected her to several months ago. But Nadir´s eyes met Christine´s, and he nodded as though he approved of what he saw there. "You can only be good for him," he concluded.

A quick squeeze to Christine´s elbow, and she turned to see Meg standing beside her. "I know EVERYTHING now, of course. Girlfriend, this is _amazing!" _Meg gushed, and she and Christine hugged each other, laughing at the sudden turn life had taken. "Meg," said Christine, "How is it possible to fall in love as quickly as I have?" Meg looked at her seriously, then glanced at Erik, who was looking at Christine (whose back was turned to him) with a kind of joyous shock. Sometime she would have to let her friend know about Erik´s famously supernatural ability to hear. And overhear.

"It´s possible," Meg assured Christine, then let her voice drop to a whisper which not even Erik could hear. "I´ve told Raoul a terrible lie. I´ve told him that you were p.o.´d by what you saw at my restaurant. Lord knows I sure was. I´ve told him you´re staying with me. I´ll let you clear things up with him later. I´m so glad you´re finally rid of the jerk."

Christine murmured her thanks, but Meg hardly heard her. Erik was now staring directly at her in a penetrating way which indicated extreme disapproval. It occurred to Meg that if Raoul had been difficult for Christine because he was distant and uncommitted, Erik was going to present her with a completely different set of problems. It was clear that he was obsessed and controlling, even this early in the game. She shook off her misgivings, though, and chatted with Christine until dinner was served.

* * *

The wedding banquet was going to last until late evening at the rate that toasts, jokes, and anecdotes were flying. Christine sat next to Erik, who, losing his bashfulness in front of his guests, pulled her close to him; later he lost all pretense of decorum and pulled his wife onto his lap. Christine smiled at him, suddenly shy, and ran her fingers tentatively through his hair. He closed his eyes and held her more tightly. One of the more considerate guests noticed, and commented that given the lateness of the hour (8:30), perhaps it was time to adjourn and leave the bride and groom to their solitude.

The effect on Christine was immediate. Saturday night….8:30… "My job!" she cried, trying to wrench herself from Erik´s grip and failing. "You quit your job this afternoon at about 3:00," Erik told her, "And please sit still. You were in the process of teaching me what complete bliss is, my love."

The guests finally filed out, leaving Erik and Christine in solitude. When Erik had closed the door behind the last one (Nadir, naturally), he turned to Christine and, lifting her into his arms, climbed the stairs with her until he reached the open door of his own bedroom.

* * *

Their lovemaking that night was more than Christine had ever dreamed of. Tonight, Erik was a gentle lover who studied her every reaction. His glowing eyes, when locked with hers, were intense, almost unnerving, as he stole every ounce of her control. Erik liked to take the lead, and Christine was only too happy to let him. What gave Christine the most pleasure, however, were the things he told her during their various couplings – how much he loved her, how she made him feel, and words of devotion that caused her to blush in the dark. Without his mask, his adoration seemed to increase tenfold.

"Is what you told Meg true?" he asked her, when the night was nearly flown and the only sound they could hear was an owl calling its mate.

Christine thought back to her conversation, and realized what he had overheard. "Yes, it´s true, Erik. I don´t know how it happened so quickly, but I do love you."

Erik kissed her, then, his eyes ablaze, and would not let her out of his embrace for the rest of the night.


	6. Chapter 6

Thanks again to those who have so kindly reviewed!

I don´t own POTO, or its characters.

* * *

Christine awakened at 10 the next morning, happy in the discomfort of Erik´s warm, sinewy embrace. She found it difficult to breathe with her face so near his shoulder, but she was certain that this must be Heaven, and did not move as her eyes opened. She looked up at Erik´s face. His eyes were open, no sign of sleepiness about them, and he was gazing at her attentively. The morning light rendered the ruined side of his face a study in ugliness and a shocking contrast to his handsome side, and Christine felt a pang of intense love run through her being like an electric current as she observed him. Erik smiled at her, then, and tightened his embrace.

"Good morning, Mrs. Darrow," he whispered, and it was Christine´s turn to smile.

Erik´s light kisses turned into lovemaking, and it was late in the morning before they finally finished. He called downstairs and had a breakfast tray brought up, and he and Christine ate together in the nude and conversed. Erik was a fascinating conversationalist on a good many subjects, and he chatted with her on several seemingly random topics, ending with an analysis of the political situation at City Hall.

"I am sorry to say that you will be meeting a good many of the blackguards who ´run´ this fair city tonight at the Charity Ball," Erik said.

Christine nearly choked on her toast. She and Erik would be going to the formal Charity Ball? She had hoped, a month or two ago, that she would be going to the Charity Ball with Raoul, whose family always attended. Raoul had intimated to her, however, that the Ball was a useless waste of time, a terrible waste of money, and that the people who attended were hopeless bores anyway: in short, that they would not be going. Christine was certain that the de Chagny family´s disapproval of her was the reason Raoul was not going this year, and she had felt a pang of regret, as well as gratitude verging on adoration for Raoul´s sacrifice on her behalf. And now she would be attending the Ball on Erik´s arm, all the while knowing that she was the reason that Raoul could not attend. She felt a stab of guilt. Then she remembered her afternoon-evening volunteer shift at the Greene Street Soup Kitchen. Meg would be expecting her…

"I have taken the liberty of sending one of our staffers, Mrs. Donovan, to take your place at the soup kitchen today," Erik said, as though reading her mind. "Your friend may be disappointed this evening, but it will only be this one evening. I will permit you to continue your volunteer work hereafter, barring any social conflicts, and I will provide you with adequate security."

_Permit me to continue?_ Thought Christine. She refused to think about the implications of that phrase, for now, and decided it was time to shower. Erik had provided her with a bathrobe, but she realized that all her clothes were in the suite set aside for her own use. She would shower there, then; as she excused herself and headed for the door, Erik´s voice stopped her.

"Christine, I wish to be explicit with you regarding things I consider to be of the utmost importance. You _will_ be sharing this suite with me. In the rush of events, I neglected to have some of your clothes and toiletry items moved in. The suite I designed and decorated for you is simply for your convenience and to avoid clutter. You are never to even consider sleeping away from me, do you understand?"

Christine turned towards him, stunned, with her hand still on the doorknob. Was this his idea of a joke, perhaps? But she had only to look at his face to realize that he was speaking in dead earnest. "Of course," she nearly whispered, smiled at him, and left to shower.

* * *

Once she had showered, Christine slipped into some designer slacks and an angora sweater. She brushed out her hair, which was long, wavy and sometimes unruly, and she wondered what Erik would think if she left it loose. She pinned it back only a little in the front, and then applied a light amount of makeup. She was thoroughly enjoying her new toys! She slipped into flats and went downstairs, then, and nearly ran into Meg ascending the stairs with a suitcase.

"Hello, are you moving in with us?" asked Christine. The suitcase, however, was her own, and it was clear in an instant what Meg had just done – She had collected Christine´s things from Raoul´s apartment.

"Don´t I wish!" replied Meg, rolling her eyes. "Your Better Half gave me your keys to Raoul´s flat, with instructions _not to miss a single hairpin _in my efforts to collect all your junk. Fortunately, you don´t have much stuff, do you? I think I got everything, though, and I gave your father´s violin the kid-glove treatment, so don´t worry about that, I know how much it means to you."

"Wasn´t…Raoul there? What did he have to say?" Christine spoke in nearly a whisper, afraid that Erik might overhear her.

"He wasn´t there. He went off in a huff to visit his parents this morning. I know, because I saw them all leave in the same car. You´re going to have to call him to break the news to him, I guess. Or maybe write him. I wouldn´t try to see him under any circumstances, Christine. I know very little about your husband, but I do have an idea what his limits are."

"Has he been trying to reach me at your apartment?" asked Christine. Meg shook her head. "I´ll check my cellphone," decided Christine. She entered her suite and picked up the purse where her cellphone was, scrolling through it for any missed calls or text messages. Nothing but two phone calls from Alan, her boss – well, ex-boss—at the Bistro, and a text message from her favourite co-worker, Jen, which simply read: "You go, girl!"

"Well, I suppose Raoul won´t take what´s just happened too hard, huh?" Christine asked Meg. "He´s even less interested than I thought he was." Christine was amazed to find that, although her pride hurt, her heart was completely untouched by Raoul´s indifference. She turned to Meg.

"Meg, I can´t tell you how much I appreciate all you´ve done for me…your shoulder to cry on, your coming to my wedding at an hour´s notice, no questions asked, and now your bringing me my junk…" Christine said, tears starting in her eyes.

Meg drew her into a hug. "Hey, Girlfriend, this friendship has never been a one-way street. You got me through High School, remember? I would have been SO flunked without you to get me through math. Anyway, your hubby has seen to it that my efforts have not gone unrewarded." Seeing Christine´s appropriately curious expression, Meg continued, "Just an hour ago, as I´m packing up the last of your things, the phone rings? And it´s one of your hubby´s hired helpers? _Miss Geary_, he tells me, _you remember_ _those pesky investors with the Vasco, the ones who own 80 percent of the joint to y_o_ur measly 20 percent? You bet your ass_, I tell him, _never go to sleep without saying a_ _prayer about them. Well, Miss Geary_, he tells me, _they are now officially off YOUR lovely ass. Consider yourself the proud owner-cum-chef of 100 percent of the Vasco, compliments of the newly-and-ecstatically-wed Mr. Erik Darrow._"

Meg contemplated her nails. "Do you have any idea at all, Girlfriend, how important your husband is in this city – who am I kidding? – in this country?" Christine merely stared at Meg, who sighed. "You´ll catch on, honey."


	7. Chapter 7

Thanks again to those who have so kindly reviewed!

I do not own POTO or its characters.

* * *

The Charity Ball was a late-winter event which attracted the crème-de-la-crème of the city´s social scene. Until she dated Raoul, Christine had never dreamed that she would attend the Ball herself any more than she dreamed of flying to the moon. She had simply discarded it from the realm of possibility. She was somewhat nervous at the prospect of seeing Phil and Tracy at the Ball, but sooner or later Raoul was going to find out about all that had happened, if he did not already know. She had underestimated Erik once more: a photograph of Erik and Christine (with Christine prominent and Erik grainy) had graced the first page of the _Society_ section of the Sunday newspaper, along with a flattering write-up of their nuptials. Even if Raoul missed that article (and he was sure to miss it, as he always went straight to the _Sports _and _Finance _sections of the paper), his parents would encounter it immediately. She wondered how much she had to worry about Raoul´s parents – perhaps they would not recognize her – they had not seen her since she was eight. However, they would certainly recognize her name. There were very few people in the entire country who bore the surname Daaé.

Erik had armed her for the evening as thoroughly as humanly possible. Christine was now sheathed within a dark red, really maroon, satin-and-velvet evening dress which showed off her figure to perfection and highlighted her fair skin. Her hair, though loose, had been thoroughly styled, and she wore a net studded with tiny rhinestones within its dark waves. Joan had done a perfect job with her makeup, and for the first time in her life, Christine had had a pedicure. Open-toed rhinestone heels had finished off Christine´s new look.

Erik had entered the suite, then, to gift Christine with the art nouveau garnet necklace, bracelet and earrings set she was wearing, and had nearly left her breathless, as handsome as he was in his tuxedo. She gazed out the window of the limousine they were now sharing, wondering what the evening would bring. She was aware of Erik´s eyes upon her, as she had been for the entire evening, and she turned and smiled at him.

"Do you attend this Ball every year?" asked Christine, as Erik pulled her closer to him.

"Heavens, no!" Erik exclaimed, chortling. "This is the first year I´ve even thought of going. Lord knows they´ve begged me for many years, but the prospect was horrifying, up until now." His eyes lingered on Christine, then swept down to where her leg was exposed by the slit in her gown. His fingers stroked her leg appreciatively, and Christine blushed. "I do believe, however, that we will be leaving early," he murmured.

Christine was not certain what to expect, but she was thankful now that her father had always insisted she learn more than basic good manners – he had taught many more social refinements, and had even insisted that she use a fork and knife when eating pizza. _Not with your fingers, child – never with your fingers! Sit up, straight! _Christine´s father had even tried to teach her to use her cutlery European-style, never changing hands when cutting her meat. She had learned, but had reverted to the American style when he was no longer able to pay attention to her.

* * *

Photographers crowded around the limousine as first Christine, then Erik, alighted from the limousine. Erik grasped Christine firmly by the waist as he shouldered his way through the crowd and the paparazzi. When they finally made their way into the ballroom, the buzz of conversation, the sounds of the orchestra, and the swirling array of gowns and tuxedos overwhelmed Christine slightly. Erik never loosened his grip on her until he had navigated them to the table graced by an ice sculpture, hors d´oevres, and a punch bowl. Bottles of champagne were placed at strategic points of the table. Erik set about serving Christine a plate of fruit and hors d´oevres and a glass of punch. While he busied himself with that, Christine watched the movement on the ballroom, noticing a change in the conversational buzz. Many stares were now directed at Erik and herself now, and rather excited murmurs accompanied the stares. Several men in tuxedoes were now headed towards them, some with their wives in tow.

"Mr. Darrow, how wonderful!" gushed the first man to approach them, a gray-haired gentleman with a pompous baritone. Erik turned, his brow raised, and addressed the man quietly.

"Mr. Prewitt," he said, nodding slightly. The other couples had by that time arrived and were beginning to form a close klatch around them. Erik introduced Christine, who shook hands with the men and bent to kiss the cheeks of the matrons who congratulated her on her marriage.

"And how did you meet Mr. Darrow, dear?" Asked Mrs. Burke, a gracious dowager with polished manners. Christine searched her mind furiously for something which would somehow unite both truth and dignity.

"He very kindly agreed to tutor my voice," answered Christine. "That was ages ago, though I discovered that I love him much more recently." A glance in Erik´s direction revealed his gaze of amused approval.

"Ah, yes, Darrow, you are quite the musical type, aren´t you?" asked Mr. Prewitt. "Tell me, are you in the throes of composition these days or just in the throes of love? And how do you manage all your enterprises while you keep busy cranking out all that art, old man?"

"I require very little sleep. However, I must admit that in the last several months I have been neglecting my businesses somewhat, leaving their management in the very capable hands of my close associate, Mr. Nadir Khan. Have no fear, your shares will be losing no value in the near future. Or in the distant future, so far as I can tell.

"I had dedicated so much time to my music and my other undertakings, you see, that when I found…_met _Christine, I was completely inexperienced in matters of the heart, totally unprepared for the effect she would have on me….I am now thoroughly _enjoying _the effect she has on me, however…"

This was met with knowing looks and appreciative chuckles. Christine blushed crimson.

"As for music, I am nearly finishing an opera, a work which I hope will serve as the perfect setting for Christine´s marvellous soprano."

Christine was stunned. In her various conversations with Erik, he had never mentioned the opera he was writing, though he had let it drop that he composed.

She soon fell into easy conversation with Mrs. Burke and several other older ladies, who seemed to sense her nervousness and were doing all that they could to put her at ease, guiding the conversation with practiced expertise. Christine noticed that their conversation included nothing that could be a topic of embarrassment to anyone, and she was grateful. She noticed, however, that she and Erik were becoming increasingly separated by the klatches surrounding them and were no longer close to each other at all. Erik was surrounded by an increasingly large group of men; all of them seemed to be hanging on his every word, but Erik had become taciturn, and was directing quick glances in Christine´s direction, his mouth set in a grim line. Christine continued to converse with her group, but she permitted her eyes to scan the room discreetly. Then she hid her panic. There, not 30 feet away, and with their eyes fixed upon her, were Phil, Tracy, Raoul, and Chelsea.


	8. Chapter 8

I do SO appreciate the encouragement I´ve received from those who have reviewed.

Garrison Keillor recently said that, in a writer, "lack of talent and persistence are a _BAD COMBINATION_," and I couldn´t agree more. I´m hoping to improve as I go along!

I do not own POTO, or its characters.

* * *

Christine observed with irony that Chelsea was gazing at her with thinly veiled hostility. She was stylishly turned out in a blue dress which revealed her perennially-tanned shoulders. Although her makeup was a bit heavy, she was the very vision of all that was moneyed and fashionable. She kept a death grip on Raoul´s upper arm, but he did not appear to notice. He was staring at Christine with an expression of utter shock. Phil and Tracy simply smirked.

Christine excused herself from her group of matrons as calmly and gracefully as she could and headed away from the quartet observing her. She looked frantically for the bathrooms, and, finally locating them, wondered how long she could hide in the ladies´ room. She was aware of Erik´s eyes on her as she retreated; she would deal with him later, she supposed. Right now she simply wanted to disappear. She turned and entered the hallway to the bathrooms, and was halfway down when she heard Raoul´s voice behind her.

"What are you doing here?"

Christine hesitated, then turned to face him. _I might as well ask you the same question, _she thought, but without anger. Two days ago she would have been reduced to tears in the same situation. Now, however, she was simply fleeing a potential conflict.

"I believe the restrooms are over here," she said, gesturing down the hallway with her hand. "I was going to freshen up a bit. You don´t mind, do you?" She asked, surprised at her own coolness.

Raoul looked confused. He was staring at Christine as if seeing her for the first time. Christine became aware, once more, of her own expensive trappings.

"Did you come with Meg?" he finally asked. Christine realized, then, that he had not seen her come in with Erik, and no one had bothered to fill him in on the wedding announcement in this morning´s _Society _section. The heat rushed to her face. He thought she had come to the Ball with Meg for the express purpose of apprehending him with Chelsea! He was facing her now as one faces a jealous harpy come to dole out retribution. She took a deep breath.

"No, Raoul, I did not come with Meg. A lot has happened in the last couple of days, though, and I don´t know where to begin," she started.

"I know, sweetheart, and I´m so sorry," interrupted Raoul. "I really meant to tell you, but I´ve been so busy, lately. I do love you, but you know I have to deal with my parents and all they want from me. Besides, I couldn´t have asked you to come with me here, where you don´t exactly fit in…."

Then he stared at her as if realizing the injustice of the last few words of his ramblings. Christine simply looked at him. _Should I jump in here or shall I let him commit verbal suicide?_

Raoul decided to try another approach. "Christine, Chelsea and I are just good friends. There´s nothing between us, but my family really likes her, and she needed an escort tonight. Anyway, I´ve been meaning to tell you, for a long time, that you and I should think about seeing other people every now and then. We can´t always be so dependent on each other! I know that I´ve been limiting your possibilities, too, and I think you should think about this. It´s good that you´ve been staying with Meg a while and you´ve spent some time away from me, but I hope you´ll come back to live with me whenever you´re ready deep inside, and we can kind of work out a more open relationship. Anyway, you didn´t have to come here tonight. You know I love you. I´ve been trying to call you on your cellphone, hoping to talk with you and work things out, but you never called back…"

"I checked my cellphone, Raoul," said Christine, "And there was no sign of any missed calls from you, and that being the case, I could only assume…"

"That I erased them!" snapped Erik, who had suddenly appeared behind Raoul and was now towering over him. Raoul turned to face Erik in complete and utter confusion, at a complete loss for words.

"Let me fill you in on all that has transpired in Christine´s life in the past couple of days, Mr. de Chagny," snarled Erik. "You appear to be a reasonable person, even for a bean-counter, and there is hope that you may someday even aspire to a modicum of intelligent behaviour. Shall we begin? Good, I shall take your silence as a sign of assent.

"Christine became my wife at 4 o´clock yesterday afternoon, a fact which has been scrupulously recorded for posterity in this morning´s _Society _pages, as well as within the county records. If you ever bothered to read the entire newspaper, or even skim through it in its entirety, you would not be bothering us now, doubtless.

"Christine is now my wife, and I think that, given sufficient time and mental effort on your part, you may be able to deduce that that makes me her husband. I have erased any phone calls or messages which might have originated from either of your two phones, Mr. de Chagny. I will not have you calling her cellphone. I will not tolerate your approaching her in this vulgar, familiar way in public. Do _not _attempt to contact my wife through any means, ever again! Do I make myself clear?" Erik hissed. Raoul looked stunned, and said nothing.

Erik, who had moved towards Christine during his outburst and placed a firm hand about her waist, now guided her towards the ballroom once more. _The Very Thought of You _filled the air with its sweet, plaintive melody, and Erik stopped to pull Christine in a loose embrace, his lips near her ear. "Care to dance?"

Erik led Christine into a simple foxtrot, and once more Christine was grateful to her father – this time, for having taught her to dance. She had never dreamed it would be of any use! As she tried to collect herself – she was still trembling from Erik´s confrontation with Raoul – she avoided Erik´s eyes and instead looked at other couples who were dancing. They were all older couples, she noticed. _Erik must be the only man here under 60 who knows how to dance,_ she mused. He was an excellent dancer, and she hoped that she matched him well. His grip on her was slightly tighter than necessary, however, and her eyes automatically met his in response to this. They were smoldering with suppressed anger, which did nothing to calm Christine´s agitated nerves.

"You knew he would be here tonight?" she ventured.

"I knew," he said tersely.

"Why…?"

"I never dreamed he would have the gall to approach you. He had the newspapers and half the social register to inform him of your new status, and the idiot pup arrived here in a state of blissful ignorance. That, coupled with your presence, has saved him, for now. If you have any residual feelings of affection for your old friend at all, you will eschew all contact with him, Christine. He has been trying my patience for a good many months, and I will not tolerate one more word from him, and certainly not any close proximity to you! What ghost of a memory might remain of him now that he is completely absent from your life can easily be erased…"

Erik caressed Christine´s cheek, drew her into an iron embrace, and kissed her deeply, all dancing forgotten. Warmth spread through Christine´s body as she responded. _Shouldn´t I resent this?,_ her pride interjected briefly, and she tried to push away, but Erik´s hold on her was unrelenting. She felt she would faint if he continued. The couples moved around them, smiling at each other, remembering their own feelings of youthful love, completely unaware of the content of the conversation that had just taken place. _Newlyweds,_ they thought in indulgent exasperation.


	9. Chapter 9

A million thanks to those kind souls who have taken the time and trouble to review. I am more than grateful for the encouragement!

I don´t own POTO or its characters.

* * *

Christine checked the clock on the bedside table. _12 noon – However did I manage to sleep until 12 noon?_, she wondered to herself, then surveyed the mess in the bedroom. Maroon gown on floor, part of it torn – check; lacy underpinnings, strewn about the bed, slightly damaged – check; off to the other side, a man´s tuxedo in a heap on the floor – check. Yes, last night _had _actually happened as she remembered. She touched her lips – _ouch!_ – and noticed a trace of blood on the pillowcase. _I don´t care how much hired help we have, I´m washing these sheets myself, _she thought in embarrassment. She pulled herself up to a sitting position, wincing slightly. Last night Erik had been nearly brutal. His expressions of love, so gentle before, had become desperate and demanding.

_You must love me, _he had said. _But I do, _she had replied, _You know I do. _

_I need more than that, Christine…Look at me!_ And she had looked in his eyes, nearly burning as she saw his hunger there. Her heart had responded with a type of anguish, more than love – this was too deep to be mere love. His gaze, concentrated on hers, had sharpened with her answer. _Yes, _he had said softly.

Christine needed no mirror to know that her love-bites had multiplied exponentially. _Thank goodness for cover stick!_

The door opened, and Christine quickly pulled up the sheets to cover herself, then relaxed. It was Erik with a breakfast tray. He approached her almost timidly, and after setting the tray down, gave her a soft kiss on the cheek and handed her a red rose. She observed it; it was beautiful, fragrant, not of the hothouse variety bred only for its form and long shelf life.

"I think you need to eat," Erik said, sitting close to her. He touched her lips briefly with his fingers and sighed, looking ashamed. Christine smiled at him and kissed him on his exposed cheek.

"Do you suppose, Erik, that someday, when we´re old and grey, we will just sit up and read in bed before simply kissing each other and going to sleep at night?"

Erik´s amused smile assured Christine that all was well once more.

* * *

Christine went to look for the cook after her shower. She wished to thank Mrs. Donovan not only for the excellent breakfast, but for pinch-hitting at the soup kitchen for her.

"You´re an extraordinary cook, Mrs. Donovan," Christine concluded, and was surprised to see that she looked irritated.

"Well, I guess some people are cooks, and some other fancy people are _chefs,_" Mrs. Donovan grumbled. Christine concluded that the cook had not gotten along very well with Meg the night before, and wondered what had happened. She was about to ask a tentative question, when she was interrupted by Erik´s voice calling her; she excused herself quickly.

* * *

Erik led Christine into the garden. "It´s about time you inspected our little Eden," he said, "Even at this inglorious time of year."

There was no snow on the ground, but it was somewhat chilly as they went down boxwood-lined paths. There were ancient oak trees which had probably been saplings when the mansion was built, as well as chestnuts and maples. There were a few evergreens, but bare-branched deciduous trees dominated the winter scene. Erik had brought out birdseed, so Christine delightedly helped him fill the various feeders hanging from the trees. She watched Erik´s elegant figure appreciatively as he moved about the garden to inspect a group of centenary oaks. He fetched a saw to remove a branch which had been damaged by the wind and, having made quick work of that, guided Christine to a place near a koi pond where a hole had been dug for a young tree. The tree, its roots protected by burlap, awaited planting nearby. Christine went to look at it.

"We do have a gardener, of course, but I wanted to plant this one myself. It´s your tree, Christine, an heirloom apple tree very appropriate to your character, called Summer Sweet. It will receive all the love and care in the world, and I am certain that it someday will yield all the apples your heart may desire. I plan to establish one new apple tree for you every winter, Christine. It´s the least I can do after having stolen and eaten your apple during your lesson all those weeks ago."

"So, it _was _you!" Christine exclaimed, pointing at him in simulated outrage. "You couldn´t even wait for me to bring fruit that wasn´t half-eaten."

"Ah, but that was the fun of it," said Erik, as he drew her into his arms. "The temptation of an apple already touched by your lips was irresistible to me. But now I am truly in Paradise."

* * *

As the day progressed, Erik became increasingly subdued. The reason for his gradual change of mood was revealed when he said, "Tomorrow is Tuesday, the holiday will have ended, and you will leave me to attend your classes. I will permit that, but bear in mind that I have assigned you an escort. He will follow you at a distance during the entire time you are away from me, although he is prohibited from exchanging so much as one word with you unless entirely necessary."

Christine was startled but not shocked by this, and did not answer. It was clear that Erik did not expect an answer.

"Before that, however," he continued, a slight smile now gracing his features, "we will have the first of our music lessons together, at 9 am sharp. You will sing for me."

* * *

Erik showed Christine into the music room the next morning, as promised, at 9 o´clock. Although he slipped immediately intoa markedly professorial demeanor, his eyes glowed with unabashed happiness at the prospect of instructing Christine personally, without barriers between them, for the very first time.

Christine toured the room, delighted by the years of accumulated treasures in evidence everywhere. There were piles of sheet music against the walls, stacked on top of ancient-looking books and orchestral scores which in turn were stacked atop shelves of more music. Loosely bound staff paper, covered in rapidly-scrawled notes, was shoved into the various piles with no evidence of organization. There was a huge harp under a dust cover in the corner with another harp of a South American variety leaning against it – the latter was only partly covered. Arranged on various shelves and stands were mandolins, a cello, a French hurdy-gurdy, two guitars, a flute, a French horn, a viola, and a violin. There was a pile in another corner of the room which was covered with a sheet, and Christine decided against disturbing it. What drew her eye the most was a huge set of keyboards connected to a computer terminal, its screen saver on.

"A marvellous boon to composition, that," remarked Erik, seeing that Christine was looking at the computer. He tapped a key and the screen came up. He scrolled down through seemingly endless pages of composition, but much too rapidly for Christine´s eyes. When she protested her inability to read any of it, Erik abruptly turned the terminal off, then turned to caress her cheek.

"This is not for your eyes…not yet, my love," he said, kissing her.

"Shall we warm up with some _vocalises_?" he said, wrapping his arms around her at the level of her diaphragm, her back to his chest. "Now, mind your posture, remember that it should be just…_so,_" he added, pressing his hands gently against her. _How can a voice be so beautiful?, _thought Christine to herself. Erik kissed the back of her ear and separated himself from her with obvious reluctance, and Christine, rising to the challenge, pretended to herself that she was alone in the room and began to warm up.


	10. Chapter 10

Blessings on all those who have reviewed!

I do not own POTO, or its characters.

* * *

Christine was exhausted. She had been fatigued during the time she lived with Raoul, but the daily pressures she had faced during that time were nothing compared with the drain on her energy which Erik´s intense attachment to her caused – yet she had never been happier in her life. Her husband had not exaggerated when he had said that he did not need much sleep. She would often drift in and out of slumber at night and hear music, and she quickly gathered that it was Erik playing the violin or cello, or experimenting at the keyboard.

She could not truthfully say that Erik was very demanding in a sexual sense, in spite of the extreme frequency of their contacts. Erik´s needs transcended the physical, and he seemed to be using his lovemaking as a way to reach something deeper within Christine, something he knew was there. As a lover, he could never be considered adventurous. He seemed to prefer the missionary position almost exclusively, yet the marriage act became exquisite in his hands. His eyes were always, unnervingly, locked with hers, and he would never relinquish her gaze until the afterglow lulled her to sleep. He spoke love and other mysteries to her, and she would blush at the feelings he laid bare, as well as her own passionate response.

She could feel Erik´s awareness of her wherever she went.

* * *

Several weeks had gone by, and Christine´s class schedule and studies demanded her grudging attention. Erik had obviously tailored his own work schedule to the time she would be away from him, too, and she gathered that he spent a great many hours closeted with Nadir or in audio conferences.

From the very first day she returned to campus after her marriage, Christine felt the onus that her change in status imposed on her. Security had been stepped up on campus, and she was quickly singled out as the reason for this inconvenience. She felt the glares of many fellow students on her as she walked to lectures. Every now and then she would see Tracy and Chelsea walking with their inevitable klatches, and she would immediately become the object of stares and whispers. Her professors either avoided looking at her at all or smothered her with overweening attention.

In spite of the security and the man who shadowed her, there would be an occasional incident. Once, when she had finished an afternoon lecture, a man approached her as she was descending the steps of the hall. "Mrs. Darrow, please, I have been totally unable to reach your husband. I need to…" But that was all he managed before he was manhandled away from her, protesting, by Christine´s security man.

"Wasn´t that illegal, or unconstitutional, or both?" asked Christine later, approaching the man she thought of as Jake the Security Dude.

"I´m sorry, ma´am," he answered flatly, and turned away.

It became routine for Christine to observe Jake as she moved around campus. He would stop people who seemed to be coming too near his "assignment," and he was often correct to do so. Christine was amazed at how many people were trying to use her to reach her husband. Nevertheless, Jake would often stop innocent students who happened to wander too close to Christine, and heated arguments would frequently ensue. Christine felt terrible, and could not wait for May to arrive. Only a few more weeks…

* * *

It was Sunday now, and Christine was looking forward to seeing Meg at the soup kitchen. She was starved for the easy conversation and friendship she shared with Meg. _Something light, nothing serious, just for today, _she thought.

Meg looked up as she entered the kitchen. "Boy, am I happy to see you!" she said. "I´m always afraid your hubby will chain you to the bed and send that witch over again!" Meg had been no happier with Mrs. Donovan than Mrs. Donovan had been with Meg, and the battle that had occurred between the two doyennes of cuisine was now famous among the Greene Street volunteers. _She was as helpful as a Flamenco dancer in a crowded metro train,_ Meg had said of the cook.

"Anyway, I need your help deciding what to do with all this," Meg said, waving a hand in the direction of a huge pile, which Christine saw, upon inspection, was composed entirely of carrots.

"Guy from the PDQ Grocers delivered this to us this morning. I think they´ve gone nuts! How did they end up with so many carrots? Do the homeless look like rabbits to them? I guess I really can´t complain, though. They also gave us some pretty decent chicken and beef, plus a lot of sugar, which won´t ever go bad. But so many carrots…D´you suppose they´ll try to write this off on their taxes?"

The soup kitchen often received donations of food from the local grocers, most of it damaged, day-old or right on the cusp of expiry. The recipe possibilities afforded by such odd assortments of meats and vegetables presented a challenge, and Meg never failed to rise to it. Christine suspected that she could be presented with sardines, asparagus and a chocolate bar and still manage to produce a masterpiece with such disparate ingredients. Meg stared at the carrots, and Christine could tell her mind was racing. "Well?"

"Well, Meg, I don´t know….Soup, maybe? Grate it and stick it in a salad? Juice it all?" Christine suggested.

"Maybe…Hey, is that Jake the Security Dude out there? Hey, Jake!" yelled Meg, signalling for Jake to enter the kitchen; he did so bashfully. Christine felt a pang of envy. Jake was not permitted to speak with _her_, but he enjoyed perfect freedom around Meg. Meg had abused this freedom to the point of asking Jake out, whereupon he had felt it his obligation to tell her that he was gay. That had left Meg a bit deflated, but she still took every opportunity she could to tease Jake or press him into service. She tied an apron around him now, and directed him toward the carrots. "Start peeling!" she ordered. Jake mumbled a protest but commenced peeling.

Jake had very little to do at the Greene Street kitchen, since it was the one place where no one seemed to be in pursuit of Christine. She felt more _herself_ in the refuge of the kitchen, and she started to relax as she helped Meg with her work. More volunteers came filtering in, and Meg and Christine shared a quiet corner where they spoke to each other in low voices.

"Your chin´s chapped, you know," chortled Meg. "Tell your loverboy that the next time he decides on a morning sex romp he needs to shave first!"

Christine simply grinned at Meg and continued to peel potatoes. Then she finally asked the question she had been wanting to ask for weeks.

"How much do you know about Erik?"

"I was wondering when you would ask me that," sighed Meg. "I´ve been meaning to tell you that I was not hiding anything from you when he was stalking you. I really did not know that it was him, and, anyways, I didn´t know him. I only knew _of _him."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you know my dad died when I was ten, right? My mom was in depression, and she needed help, but the one ray of hope she had was the life insurance policy which was going to pay her a nice, hefty sum and get us through that miserable, stinking part of our lives. But the company didn´t want to pay. They knew we were hard up and that we couldn´t afford a lawyer and that even if we got one on a contingency basis his fee would eat up the settlement money. They knew a court case would take years and that they would just settle with us at the end. Well, somehow Erik made them pay, and not only that -- they were like, _We´re so sorry, ma´am, we´re so very sorry for what we did you, would you like to have more money to make it up to you? How about a new car or down payment on a house as a gesture of goodwill? _

"That was the first time I heard Erik´s name, and my mom told me never to use it in vain. Seems she had helped him when he was a kid, and he was only too happy to be her friend. He got her her position at the Cit, but it was kind of a pact with the devil. She helped him to kind of run things when he failed to have things done his way using his _dinero_ and influence, or his genius" -- here, Meg´s voice lowered to a whisper, "and he wasn´t above blackmail and other nasty methods. People were scared of him, really, really scared of him. And they still are."

Christine felt her hands growing cold.

"Another thing, honey," Meg added. "I would be very, very careful of Erik. He loves you way too much. I asked Mom, and she says he never let anyone get close to him before you – no one! How old is he, by the way?"

"Thirty-six," murmured Christine.

"Fourteen years older than you, then," said Meg. "Well, he was miserable until he married you, and I mean miserable _all his life._ Has he told you anything about his childhood?"

"No, it´s a subject that´s off limits, and I respect that."

"Good. I hear his childhood was horrible beyond belief, but he´ll be too proud to stand the humiliation of telling you about it. Just stick to discussing the weather with him…or doing whatever it is that leaves your lovely neck all black and blue."

Christine and Meg were soon ready to start serving up front, and as they carried trays out the kitchen door, they were blinded by a photographer´s flash. Jake rushed forward to hustle the man away while both women retreated into the kitchen, rubbing their eyes.

"Isn´t that great?" snarled Meg. "When you´re a poor little nobody and do volunteer work, it´s nothing – but when you´re rich and volunteer, you´re a saint who makes the paper the next day."

At Christine´s apology, Meg simply drew her into a hug. "I can say I knew you when, honey," she said.


	11. Chapter 11

American Beauty roses to those charitable souls who have reviewed!

It´s been a wonderful, quiet week, and I´ve been able to write unhindered. Now Real Life is snapping at my heels, and my updates will be less frequent, I´m afraid. However, I have this sketched out to the end, so this story will be completed!

I don´t own POTO, or its characters.

* * *

Christine left her last exam with a sense of liberty made keener by the beautiful May weather. She stepped from the darkness of the hall into the sunlight, blinking as her eyes adjusted. Her academic adviser had checked her credits, complimented her on her grades – she would be graduating cum laude, in spite of all her contretemps – and clucked in disapproval when he found she would not be attending her own graduation ceremony. She explained that she had an important schedule conflict, but she knew he did not believe her. She had always been a terrible liar. Yet, how could she tell him the truth? Three months ago, she had felt at home on campus, where she was just another student. People took her at face value, and were kind to her or rude to her as their individual characters dictated. Now, however, she found that people were no longer themselves when they dealt with her. She was a stranger now.

She had told Erik that she did not wish to be in the graduation ceremony.

"Why not?" he had asked, watching her carefully. Three months on, and Erik still watched her as intensely as the first day. She no longer found it unnerving or exhausting – it was just Erik. It was typical for her to study for hours at a time feeling his unyielding gaze on her.

"I don´t care much for ceremonies," Christine had answered him. "It´s the degree that´s important."

Erik had looked at her, his lips set in a grim line. He knew the truth. He always did.

* * *

Now, Christine crossed campus for the last time, thinking of the changes in her life. Months ago, she had contacted various companies, submitting her transcript and references and hoping for an internship. Two of them had responded positively, but after her marriage all contacts had ceased. Erik had other plans for her.

As she approached the street at the edge of campus where she usually met the limousine, she saw that it had not arrived yet. She checked her watch; she had finished her exam earlier than scheduled and would have to wait five or ten minutes more. Within the heavy traffic, she noticed a Mercedes convertible whose driver changed lanes upon sighting her and screeched to a halt. It was Phil de Chagny, and Tracy was in the passenger´s seat.

Phil got out hurriedly, tearing away from Tracy´s desperate attempts to restrain him. Christine could hear Tracy´s voice, screaming: "No, Phil, don´t…" but all she could focus on was Phil approaching her, his face twisted with rage. From the look of him, he had already had a few beers. Even in her panicked state, Christine noticed the contrast between the soft pink of his polo and the flushed purple ire evident on his face. She looked around wildly for Jake, but he was nowhere to be seen.

"You don´t mess with my family! They lost everything – well, I´ll show YOU…YOU!... what it is to lose something," he said, gripping Christine´s arm and screaming into her face, his spittle flying. She could smell the beer on his breath, and the stink of his sweat. She struggled to break free, despairing; Phil spent a great deal of time working with weights, and he was quite muscular – his grip on her arm only tightened. She felt a sudden relief as he was wrenched away from her. Jake reduced Phil to the ground in two moves, then cuffed him. The campus police had come by this time and were taking charge of the situation, so Jake turned around to scrutinize Christine.

"You okay?" he asked, to which Christine mutely nodded. "Shit! Where´s the limo? I thought you were already in the limo!" he said. As if in answer to his question, the limousine appeared some distance away, coming toward them slowly, since the traffic in front was tied up by people slowing down to move around Phil´s convertible, then to gawk at the handcuffed man about to be escorted away by police. Phil twisted around toward Christine, his face contorted with rage, and screamed "You´re a bitch! You´re a bitch! You´re a BIIIIIIITCH!"

Jake used his body to block Christine from Phil´s view, which she deemed pathetic, since nothing could block out Phil´s screams. Jake was moving her carefully toward the limousine now, but before she got in, Christine pleaded with him frantically.

"Please, Jake, I´m begging you… Please don´t tell Erik about this…"

Jake was silent.

* * *

Erik greeted Christine with his usual eagerness, and she sighed in relief as she entered the house. There would be bruises on her arm, but they could be hidden – and, so far, Erik did not know about the incident on campus, and perhaps he would never know. But his voice startled her out of her reverie.

"What happened?" He had turned to look at her, and he scrutinized her from head to foot. Christine was thankful she was wearing long sleeves.

"What do you mean?"

"What were you thinking? Why did you sigh just now?" He held her gaze in his. _Uh-oh. _"Something´s wrong," he said, his eyes unrelenting.

"Very last day on campus, that´s all…it feels weird," she said, but she could tell he was not convinced. He let it drop, however, with a preoccupied air.

Erik was escorting Christine now towards the office downstairs, and she looked at him, curious as to his intentions.

"There is something I wish to show you, my love," he said simply, as he closed and locked the door behind them. He reached for a button hidden within the relief on a baseboard, and the fireplace and part of the wall slid aside to reveal a door. Erik punched in a combination and opened it, ushering Christine inside a hallway. Everything closed behind them, and she saw that they were on the landing leading to a dimly-lit stairway. Upon descending the stairs, they came to an enormous, thick metal door, and Erik punched in another combination. Erik kissed Christine lightly as he showed her into a large room filled with computer terminals.

"This is where my business ventures really are," he said.

Nadir, who had been seated at one of the terminals, rose and went to greet Christine. "Christine! It´s good to see you. Congratulations on getting your degree!" Christine thanked him as her eyes swept the room. It was a Spartan place, with no decoration whatsoever, which seemed out of character for Erik. Besides the terminals, all of which were on and running, there were a couple of desks, one filing cabinet, and, in one corner, a bed. There was a small refrigerator in one corner with a sink and counter next to it. Christine wondered whether this deep basement might have been a bomb shelter at one time.

Erik was rocking nervously on his heels. "You know I hold a controlling interest in several concerns, but one of my favourite hobbies, which became my profession, really, is to broker investments. And what better way to do so than to know beforehand what numbers a corporate balance sheet is going to present?"

Christine wondered if she was hearing what she thought she was hearing, and looked at Nadir, questions in her eyes.

"Erik is very good at cracking algorithms, Christine," said Nadir, softly. "He´s the best mathmetician and hacker I know. He´s written program after program, designed to…examine… the various accounts contained in corporate mainframes, even flag certain pieces of in-house correspondence and memos which indicate tendencies the decision-making process may take within the company. The most remarkable thing is that he moves like a ghost through the mainframe, leaving no trace of his presence. No one knows he´s watching."

"The secret, really, is never to become avaricious," added Erik. "There´s an art to this. One can make a fortune in only one day, but he will draw unwelcome attention to himself. But, imagine, calculating a certain amount of ´human´ error into the procedure, and your decisions will never appear that they were based on inside information. They will appear to be lucky guesses, or astute but blind calculations…"

Christine felt weak. "And how many corporations are you…watching?"

"Every publicly-traded company of any importance," stated Nadir flatly. There was a silence.

"You are thinking of ethics. Yet what is ethical, Christine? An executive making 25 times what the all-too-expendable worker bees are making? And what if he pushes the envelope when it comes to acceptable accounting practices? Who do you think provides the authorities with the anonymous tip which eventually leads to his all-too-timely professional demise, before he ruins things for everyone?" asked Erik, quietly.

"I would call Erik a grey-hat hacker, not a black hat, Christine," said Nadir, quickly. "He intervenes in cases of criminality, incompetence, or … criminal incompetence. He is actually a boon to the economy."

Christine thought about the de Chagnys, and Phil´s assertion that they had lost everything. What role had Erik played in that?

Erik drew her into an embrace, his eyes examining hers. Christine smiled weakly.

"You´ve finished school, Christine, and you have little love for the campus life now, so I do not believe you wish to pursue a postgraduate degree. You will come work with me now, and you will see how everything works – all the secrets in the world exposed to you, bit by bit, so to speak."

Christine felt nervous, and left Erik´s embrace to stroll around the room examining the computer screens. She stopped at one monitor against the wall which revealed a familiar scene: Mrs. Geary´s office at the Cit as seen from the perspective of the mirror. Another near it was focused on the artistic managers´ office, with a clear view of their desk and whatever might be on top of it. Erik looked embarrassed.

"That, Christine, is closed-circuit. Sometimes I cannot be in the passageways of the Cit personally, so this is the next-best thing," he murmured. "I have not monitored it for a long time, though."

An intercom on one of the desks buzzed, and Erik went to answer. Christine examined one of the terminal screens. It had just flagged a memo from a pharmaceutical company which suggested public relations strategies; they were to combat public alarm over certain secondary effects associated with a new antidepressant. Erik was suddenly at Christine´s side, and he gave her an odd, penetrating look as he told her, "I must go upstairs for a few minutes."

He hesitated, then looked at Nadir in a way that conveyed an unspoken warning. Then he was gone.


	12. Chapter 12

Hugs to those who have reviewed!

I do not own POTO, or its characters.

* * *

Nadir shook his head with a trace of sadness after Erik had left the room. Then he turned to regard Christine, who was moving from one terminal to the next and looking increasingly uncertain. _How on earth will I ever begin to understand all of this?_

Nadir interpreted her silent doubts accurately, and said, "Don´t worry, Christine. I scarcely understand all this either, you know. He just wants you to be here with him."

"If I´ve no hope of understanding any of this, then what use am I here?"

"Please believe me when I tell you that you´re indispensable, Christine. I shudder to think what would happen if, for some reason, you should not come on board." Nadir seemed to be considering what he was about to say next with great care, and was silent for a moment.

"Christine, I´ve known Erik for a great many years. He has always been obsessive about one thing or another, and I often worried that he might become addicted to drugs. I was worried about the wrong thing, though. Lord knows he had the opportunity, but he never even tried soft drugs, so far as I know. He never needed them. His mind has always been so very active, you see, that it found other outlets for pleasure. He has always been addicted to music, and by now you know something of the power of that addiction. You have seen what he has written, haven´t you? Not so much the symphonies, as the vocal pieces?"

Christine nodded, thinking. She had been amazed at what she had seen on paper, and had asked Erik for CDs of his work. Yet he was never satisfied with the various performances of his works, and therefore had no CDs for Christine to listen to. Nadir continued.

"Erik developed an addiction to power, of the insidious kind you see here represented in the form of these terminals. He would spend weeks on end without sleeping, writing and perfecting programs and monitoring their effects. I think he saw, and still sees, all of this as a game of strategy, rather like chess played at an amazingly high level. I was only too happy to assist him in what ways I could – I would meet with clients and executives for him, since he never cared for contact with people. This I still do for him; you may have noticed his reluctance to have anything to do with the human race."

"What about the Charity Ball? He didn´t mind going to that."

"That was because of you, dear girl; be patient, I´m coming to where you fit into all of this. No, the Charity Ball was his triumph. He had succeeded in marrying you, and he wanted the entire city to know it.

"It isn´t that you have changed him. I don´t think that people are capable of changing other people. However, you set off something that I think had always been latent inside Erik, and the effect on him was devastating. He has always liked women in a detached kind of way, but before you came along, his heart had always remained untouched. The night he discovered you he truly experienced a _coup de foudre, _and he was in agony. I was very afraid that he might take his own life, especially when he discovered your relationship with Raoul de Chagny. Watching you surreptitiously, then training your voice, is what kept him alive. He lost all interest in his work and slept less than ever.

"I hope you will forgive me for this, Christine, but I, too, followed you on Erik´s behalf once or twice. I don´t think I flatter myself when I say that I read people very well, as a general rule. It was clear, even from the way you looked at the door as you approached your apartment, that you were not happy with Mr. de Chagny. Erik seized on this information as a drowning man clings to a scrap of wood, and he made plans. When Mrs. Geary confirmed that you were, in fact, miserable, Erik decided to move. And now you are here.

"I had never seen Erik happy before. He is happy, finally, since his marriage to you. However, he has been unable to concentrate on his work. He thought he might get things done while you were in class, but he has been irascible and distractible without your presence. It´s clear that he now requires you to be physically here in order to function. I don´t know what role he has reserved for you, exactly, but know that you are very important here."

Christine listened, absorbing the information. It was clear what her responsibility was, and she abandoned her doubts.

The door opened suddenly and with a great amount of force, and Erik flew across the room and came to stand in front of Christine. Nadir took an instinctive two steps back, but Erik seemed not to notice. He spoke to him, nonetheless. "Get out."

Nadir exited the room as rapidly as his dignity would permit. Christine felt a terrible chill as she observed the molten turbulence in Erik´s eyes. He examined her carefully once more, then grasped her hand and gently, very gently, pulled up her sleeve with his other hand. Christine shut her eyes tightly, knowing what he would find. She heard a hiss, then silence; then, more silence. She dared to open her eyes, and was immediately terrified by the expression she saw in Erik´s eyes, now distantly focused. He pulled her into his arms, then, and held her in an iron grip, her head against his chest. She could hear his irregular breathing and the rapid beating of his heart, and she wished he would _do_ something – anything! – break furniture, scream, cry – anything! His silence was terrible to her. Nevertheless, he simply held her without the slightest change in the force of his grip.

They remained this way for _two hours._

* * *

Summer arrived in earnest, and the apple tree Erik had planted for Christine bore its first fruit. "Let me have what you don´t eat," said Meg. "I´ll make you a pie you won´t believe!"

Christine accompanied Erik to the "air-raid shelter," as she termed it, five days a week. Nadir was satisfied: with Christine in the same room, Erik was able to immerse himself in his work without becoming nervous. Christine had soon learned to interpret some of the data that popped up on terminal screens, though she always asked Erik to verify her conclusions.

One day, Erik was called away by the intercom; when he reentered the bomb shelter, he seemed bemused. "I have news regarding an old acquaintance of yours, Christine," he said. "To be specific, Miss Chelsea Taylor. It seems she was caught trying to buy 19 pairs of shoes at a mall using a credit card in your name."

Christine froze. Chelsea? She gaped at Erik, shocked.

But it was true. The newspaper the next day featured a short article on Chelsea´s misdeed. Erik had insisted that it be published, and since his importance outweighed whatever influence Chelsea´s family wielded, it was published in excruciating detail. There was even a photo of Chelsea being led away in handcuffs. She had used Christine´s social security number, it seemed, in an attempt to usurp her identity. It succeeded, partially. She managed to take out a credit card in Christine´s name, but the very first time she had tried to use it, she had been caught. The most grotesque aspect of the drama was the fact that Chelsea had donned a wig which she obviously thought would make her look more like Christine.

Christine was still looking at the newspaper article in horror when her cellphone rang.

"Christine!" It was Meg´s voice on the line, but somehow it did not sound like her.

"Hey, Meg! How´s it going? I guess you saw the paper this morning, huh?"

"Oh…yeah, I saw that, but I´m calling about something else, hon…"

"What on earth could be more earth-shattering than what Chelsea did?"

"Brace yourself, honey," Meg said, "because there´s something that is. Phil de Chagny died yesterday."


	13. Chapter 13

Thornless roses to all those kind souls who have reviewed!

I do not own POTO, or its characters.

* * *

Christine was floating through a silvery mist towards Erik, who drew her toward him with his eyes

Christine was floating through a silvery mist towards Erik, who drew her toward him with his eyes. He seemed to be in front of her, yet she could feel his callused fingertips on her back, then her shoulders and arms. His ethereal voice sang its lullaby in her mind, then suddenly he was beside her, floating as well. The mist continued.

"What do you feel?" he asked.

"Coolness, and a very slight breeze," Christine replied, searching for solid ground beneath her, and knowing she would never find it while she remained in Erik´s power.

His eyes appeared to focus beyond her own, to within her mind, probing. Something gentle found her heart, and demanded, "Tell me you love me."

"You know I love you, Erik," she said, and they returned. Christine found herself lying on her stomach; beside her on the bed, Erik was propped on his elbow, observing her as his finger drew lazy circles on her bare back. She smiled at him sleepily, and he returned her smile.

Erik had fallen into the habit of producing illusions after the morning lovemaking sessions he and Christine shared, and today´s floating illusion was but a hint of his abilities.

"Where did you learn to do THAT?" Christine had asked him after he had performed his first illusion on her. She had suddenly found herself on a mountaintop, but Erik had returned her to the real world immediately.

Erik´s amusement had faded, and his eyes had been distant. "In the Far East," he said, and she knew from his tone that he would tolerate no further questions.

* * *

After breakfast, as they were about to enter the office, Johnston stopped Erik to communicate something to him. Though Christine could hear little of their quiet conversation, she picked up on some intriguing bits and pieces of it:

"After the break-in … police didn´t find … a security breach or not…metal reinforcements, maybe steel instead of aluminum…should have no trouble finding it in Seattle…"

Erik went to the office momentarily to locate some paperwork, and Christine approached Johnston.

"Mr. Johnston, has something happened?"

"Oh, no, ma´am, not lately. They´re just finishing up the repair work on your house in Seattle – the one which was broken into?"

Christine hid her surprise. Shortly after their marriage, Erik had briefed Christine on all the property they now held in common. There were scores of houses, and she remembered the one in Seattle – she had examined it on the CD provided her. Usually Erik kept her up-to-date on incidents affecting their properties – or any business decisions affecting them. She found it remarkable that Erik always consulted her regarding any sales, rentals, or even changes in décor affecting them. It was as though she had always been in Erik´s life, and he regarded her life prior to him as an accident which their marriage had corrected.

As Erik returned and their business day together began, Christine soon forgot the uneasy feeling Johnston´s news had given her.

* * *

Sunday came, and Christine was eager to get to her volunteer shift at Greene Street. She had missed three weeks there as a precautionary measure to throw off predators; each Sunday Meg had called to complain noisily about her absence and to update her on all the latest gossip she had heard at the Vasco.

"Where´s Jake?" said Meg as Christine entered, in lieu of any greeting.

"Well, I missed you, too!" said Christine. "Jake´s in the front doing his best surveillance. Any excuse to hide from _you_," she added.

Meg grinned at the idea of being so terrifying, and stuck her head out the door. Nothing. She looked behind the door then, and saw that Jake had flattened himself there against the wall. "Nice try, Studmuffins," she said, "but you won´t avoid kitchen duty that way."

Jake muttered something desperate and incoherent and headed as far away from the kitchen as he could manage. Meg appeared to give up, and closed the door.

"Good," she murmured to Christine in their customary quiet corner. "Now we can talk about Phil de Chagny without anyone listening too closely."

Christine felt a pang, but little more. Erik had had nothing to do with Phil´s death – she was certain of it. He had died of natural causes while visiting the West Coast – it was freakish, really, but she was sure it was just a coincidence that Phil´s death had followed on the heels of Erik´s anger. She started to bone some of the chicken on the counter.

"It was some weird kind of encephalitis," Meg was saying, "and they say that it might have had something to do with the fact that he´d had mono. Case closed. So they flew his body in from Seattle…"

"Seattle?" Christine asked, suddenly cold.

"Yeah, Seattle. Funny, huh? No one knew what he was doing there, but I bet he was in the mood for a vacation from that Tracy chick. Pain in the ass if ever there was one, and nearly as crazy as her bosom buddy Chelsea. Anyway, the de Chagnys have gone totally nuts. You know what?" she asked, then lowered her voice as she continued. "They´re blaming your _husband _for this, but they can´t say _why._ First, the family makes those investments in high-risk derivatives because the Prewitts made a mint in them – they did this all by their lonesome. But they blame Erik because the Prewitts got their money out on time while they, the all-powerful de Chagnys, couldn´t, and you know what happened _then. _And now they want to blame him for Phil! And Raoul is just frothing at the mouth over this…"

"You talked with Raoul?" Christine asked, shocked.

Meg looked abashed. "Well, yeah," she said, and this time her voice lowered to a whisper. "I shouldn´t tell you this, but he´s been calling me ever since you left him, wanting to know about you. I don´t ever tell him much, don´t worry, but I feel kinda sorry for the guy. He says he tried to talk with you on campus several times…"

"He did NOT…" Christine started to intervene.

"But Jake stopped him before you could even see him, okay? So now he´s calling me because he wants to know about you. I think he wants to see you."

"I bet," said Christine bitterly.

"As I said, I shouldn´t tell you this, but I´m your friend and you have the right to know. One of these days he might try something, you know."

There was silence then, and Christine´s fingers trembled as she began to cut up onions. She could feel the tears coursing down her cheeks as she worked. Meg glanced at her, then gazed at her in concern. "Christine?"

"Onions," she answered.

* * *

Erik was inside the limousine when it came to pick up Christine. She was grateful that she had had time to collect herself and steel herself against Erik´s close scrutiny.

"You have been crying," he remarked after she had gotten in.

She smiled. "Care to check out my new perfume?" she asked, offering him an onion-scented hand. He seemed relieved as he kissed her hand.

"Good enough to eat, as always," he said, smiling at her. The two rode in comfortable silence together for some minutes, but then Erik smoothed Christine´s hair and added, "We have a change of agenda, my love. We have our final counseling session with Father Joseph tomorrow instead of Tuesday."

Christine winced. Father Joseph was the elderly Jesuit priest who was to officiate at their wedding Mass. He had been angry with them because of their decision to live together in a civil matrimony, and he had become angrier when he had found that Christine was using contraceptives and planned to continue using them. Erik had spoken with Father Joseph privately, however, and the priest had become less severe.

"Soon we will be married in the eyes of all Christendom. Have some sherry, my love," he said, as he offered Christine a glass, his entire countenance radiating contentment.

Christine took the proffered glass, enjoying the feel of Erik´s arm around her shoulder and his lips as he kissed the top of her head. She abandoned her doubts and worries, if only for a while.


	14. Chapter 14

Thanks to all those who have reviewed! I threatened to write a chapter from Raoul´s POV, and I´ve made good on that threat, I´m afraid. It´s kind of long, and I hurried through the editing -- in short, my apologies if it´s a bit messy.

I do not own POTO, or any of its characters.

* * *

Raoul de Chagny considered himself a fairly intelligent and perceptive man, but he had never dreamed that Christine might leave him one day.

There had been no sign of unhappiness on her side during the time that they had lived together. In fact, she had been crazy about him! Try as he might, he could not understand what had happened to change that.

_Erik Darrow._ It was true that he was wealthy – extremely wealthy, if any of the rumors were true. And that was all that there was to be found regarding Darrow – rumors, nothing more. It was hopeless to try to find any information on him that was biographical in any way. It was peculiar – self-made men were usually proud of having come up from nothing, eager to share stories of the hardships they had weathered on the road to influence and riches. Not Darrow, and this had made Raoul suspicious of him from the very beginning.

The night of the Charity Ball had been the first time Raoul had seen Erik Darrow – indeed, it had been the first time many people had seen the mysterious businessman, since Nadir Khan served as his only real public contact. The office on Meade Street was filled with personnel who executed orders but had little to do with the man himself. There had been rumors, of course, about a disfigurement which required him to wear a half-mask. The mask might explain some of Darrow´s reclusive nature, but not all of it. Certainly, Christine did not seem repulsed or frightened by it, or by his eyes, which Raoul remembered as having been downright _creepy. _They seemed to burn into a person, and Raoul had to admit that the man´s persona rendered him a frightening adversary.

His pride had been hurt badly by the incident at the Charity Ball. He had stood there, mutely, _stupidly_, and had simply permitted Darrow to dress him down, then run off with his girlfriend. His _fiancée._ He would have married Christine, sooner or later. His family would have become accustomed to the idea, given time. The time would have come.

His family! His parents had accepted and approved of Christine when they had been childhood friends, and had even expressed sympathy for her plight years later when she had been bereaved. Raoul had been surprised at their venom, then, when Christine had moved in with him.

"Really, Raoul, she´s a very pretty girl, but how could you let her talk you into shacking up with her? Think of the opportunities you´re missing with girls who are part of our own social class. No, don´t put on a face like that, these things _matter. _And what if she gets herself pregnant? There´s a trick that´s as old as the hills. You´d be trapped, indeed and truly."

The insults to Christine´s morals, character and social standing had only worsened, to the point where she was only mentioned in conversation using the epithet "that little white trash." Raoul cringed at the attacks on her, and he did his best to defend her, initially, but the onslaught only continued more virulently than before. He abandoned his attempts to defend Christine for the sake of peace.

Phil had approved of Raoul´s situation, but only because he was certain that sooner or later his brother would abandon Christine for someone more his style. He would visit, often accompanied by Chelsea and Tracy, and once he had determined that Christine was not running Raoul´s life, he had urged him to explore "other options."

Chelsea was hot, it was true, and it was also true that Raoul had slept with her in the past, but so what? He loved Christine, and he was not interested.

He loved Christine. He was comfortable living with her, and she was happy with him. It was true that she had been clueless in bed initially, but that had improved; it had been a lot of work, but sex had improved. Still, he could not help but feel a bit disappointed. He grudgingly admitted that part of what had attracted him to Christine was that she was unattainable. They had had good vibes when they were dating, and their conversations were great, but he had wanted more; he could sense a type of latent passion in Christine, and he was sure that he could liberate that passion, given the right circumstances. Yet Christine had turned out to be nothing special in bed. It was true she was a novice, but Raoul quickly found her to be boring.

It did not help things that the pressure from his family and even some friends generated feelings of resentment towards Christine. It was true. Raoul resented her, even though he knew she did not deserve it. Little things began to irritate him. She would pinch pennies until they screamed – she insisted on going over the utilities bills with a fine-tooth comb, and her clothes and makeup were bought on the cheap and looked it. She even bought cheap beer until he had insisted on his favorite brand. And there was this constant feeling that Raoul particularly resented – the feeling that Christine expected him to marry her, that she was simply waiting for her wedding. Well, she would have to wait a long time.

Yet it was true that he loved her. They had been happy.

The fateful evening of the Charity Ball had arrived, and Christine had turned up with Erik Darrow. She was cool, stunning, and no longer his. Raoul found her irresistible, much to Chelsea´s outrage. The incident with Darrow had stung, but Raoul was certain that the Christine´s marriage was an illusion – an elaborate trick intended to recapture his attention. He was amazed at the lengths to which she had gone.

He had gone home after the Ball fully expecting to find Christine there with some kind of an explanation – he was actually looking forward to it. Seeing her in the arms of another man had excited him. However, instead of Christine, Raoul had come home to an empty apartment – she had moved her things out and left the keys in the foyer.

It took weeks for the reality of Christine´s marriage to hit him. Raoul tried to call her, but it was futile. Then it occurred to him to write her. The disastrous result of that was the arrival of a note, apparently from Darrow himself, which was as direct as it was succinct: _At the risk of repeating myself, Mr. de Chagny, I must insist once again that you leave Christine alone. Do not try to contact her again by any means. _

Raoul tried to approach Christine on campus time and again, only to be pushed away by her bodyguard, or security man, or whatever he was. Darrow had been thorough. He had tried to call to Christine, but she had not heard him. It was then that the real pain had started for Raoul, when he finally realized that he had truly lost Christine.

It was at about this time that Raoul´s parents had started having financial problems. Actually, they had suffered a stunning blow to their fortune, and they would be lucky to keep the house they were living in.

The de Chagnys´ downfall, coincidentally, had involved Erik Darrow, though not directly. Raoul´s parents had been insulted and offended when Darrow had refused them as clients. On what grounds could he possibly have refused them, especially with as huge a client base as he had? They were outraged. They never had to seek people out – they were old money, and people sought _them _out. The rejection note from Darrow´s wage slaves on Meade Street had been a _form letter _with phrases like "…regret that our obligations do not permit us to devote the time and attention which an account such as yours would merit…" Completely impersonal! Who did this Darrow upstart think he was, coming as he had from nowhere, from nothing! He was a nobody – a clever, rich nobody, but a nobody nonetheless.

When old Prewitt had let the fact drop that Darrow had made a killing for him in futures speculation, the de Chagnys had developed a plan. They would invest in the same type of portfolio as Darrow had provided the Prewitts and make the same type of killing for themselves. Cotton futures had proved quite profitable for Darrow after flooding had limited the crop that year; next year´s crop was not expected to be much better. The de Chagnys had invested heavily, then, in cotton futures – and had learned, too late, that Darrow was no longer investing in the same thing. Thanks to various countries´ dedicating more acreage to cotton and to favorable weather conditions, a bumper crop ensued, and the de Chagnys received the dreaded margin call. They had lost everything in their account and much, much more.

They blamed Erik Darrow. Perhaps it was unreasonable, and people certainly scoffed at them, but they firmly believed that he was instrumental in their ruin. Phil was inclined to agree with his parents, but Raoul knew the truth: his parents had been incredibly stupid. Darrow´s snub had indeed goaded the de Chagnys, but they had let themselves be goaded into their foolishness.

Just as Raoul was assimilating the idea that he would have to live on a budget and that his salary would be his only source of income, Chelsea had decided to move in with him.

She had simply moved in. She and Raoul had been dating in earnest ever since Christine had left, and she was in the habit of leaving things in his apartment after her overnight stays. Soon she had all the clothes, makeup, and accessories she needed, and she appropriated Christine´s old key and remained.

Chelsea´s presence in his life caused Raoul to miss Christine all the more. Chelsea loved to shop, and whined when he refused to contribute to her clothing budget. With Chelsea, the wish to marry was not a silent hope – it was a noisy demand, and she left bridal magazines out on the coffee table, their pages open to display the most exquisite wedding dresses. She was messy – she left dishes everywhere, clothes everywhere, and when dinnertime came, she would order out, since she did not know how to cook or dream of learning.

Raoul came to realize how much Christine had done for him, and he began to see that he perhaps had been unfair to her, at times. He loved her more than ever, and he felt his life slipping out of control without her. People at work had begun to notice that he looked tired and fretful, and they were making worried comments.

One day when he had had a particularly grueling day, he had snapped at Chelsea. A word or two to the girl was long overdue – his VISA card was maxed out, and she would not understand that. She wanted shoes this time. Raoul sat, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, his elbows resting on his knees.

"You still love her, don´t you?" said Chelsea, out of the blue.

Raoul had met her eyes tiredly. "Yes," he said, softly.

"Well, fuck you!" Chelsea had screamed, and then had left. Raoul was happy to be alone and did not care in the slightest where his girlfriend had gone. He cared several hours later when the phone rang. Chelsea was crying.

"Honey, something´s happened, and you´ve got to help me. They don´t understand anything, and now I´m in jail and you have to get me out, please. This is incredible…please come quick, will you?"

Raoul, shocked, had hurried over, but when he learned what Chelsea had done, he had refused to post bail for her.

Why had she done it? Why had she tried to steal Christine´s identity? It had never occurred to him just how maniacally jealous Chelsea could be. She had gone through computer files that had been left by Christine, and there she had found her social security number. She had planned as carefully as a woman of her limited intellect could, and she had obtained a credit card in Christine´s name. Trying to use it, though, had been more complicated than she had thought, and now that she had been apprehended, Erik Darrow was not about to let her off the hook. _Well, let him have her, _thought Raoul, bitterly. _He´s welcome to HER._

Just when Raoul had thought life could not get any more complicated, his brother had died – mysteriously, people said – on the West Coast. Phil had had sufficient time, however, to tell Raoul, and only Raoul, why his life had ended. Erik Darrow had murdered him. _Murdered him._

Christine would learn all that her husband had done, and if it brought her back into his life, so much the better.

Raoul prepared a note – a note that would be delivered into Christine´s own hands.


	15. Chapter 15

A big hug to all have reviewed! Please forgive the length of this chapter. I wanted to give Meg some attention.

I do not own POTO, or its characters.

* * *

Erik and Christine were married by Father Joseph in a wedding Mass so simple and intimate that Meg and June Geary were their only witnesses. Meg approached the couple afterwards and gave Christine a hug.

"You´re both coming to the Vasco for dinner – no, don´t worry, I´ve got a secluded corner reserved for the two of you," said Meg, seeing and understanding Erik´s gesture of reluctance. "You guys can´t deny me this! The last time you got married you didn´t give me enough time to go out and buy you a wedding gift! Hey, you´re not planning on getting married yet _again_, are you? I think by now you´re well and truly hitched!"

"And we´ll get to meet your new boyfriend?" offered Christine, ignoring the last comment and smiling slyly at Meg. Meg glared at her.

Joe LeBlanc had decided unilaterally that he was Meg´s boyfriend after he had been sent to her restaurant in his capacity as food critic. He had tried her wild boar tenderloin with chestnut purée, then waxed rhapsodic over her orange panchineta. Only the most passionate of souls could produce such cuisine, he decided, and he was pleasantly surprised to find that the chef, M. Geary, was in fact a lady. And what a lady! He refused to submit his article on the Vasco on ethical grounds – he was now emotionally involved with the chef. Meg, who had been anticipating a glowing review, was immediately furious with Joe and had refused to speak with him.

Joe decided to become an unyielding and constant presence at Meg´s restaurant. He ate lunch at the Vasco; he ate dinner at the Vasco. He bribed the waitpersons with such generous tips that they joined his campaign and urged Meg to have mercy on the poor, infatuated food critic. Finally, one day, Meg could take it no longer and strode over to his table. She had ripped off her cap and left her red hair free out of frustration over the situation, and her blue eyes were fairly snapping. Joe thought she looked like a goddess.

"Look," she said, brandishing her cap as if it were a weapon, "You want trouble? You got trouble. Got the papers you need from the health department? Don´t worry, they don´t ask for much. You´re working in the kitchen with me, now. You´re going to be a line chef, and you´re going to find out, in the worst way, what I´m _really _like. Got it?"

"Where do I sign?" asked Joe, eagerly. Meg looked deflated, and headed back to the kitchen.

Joe set about making himself indispensable to Meg. She had always kept as bare-bones a staff as possible, since she trusted no one but herself with her trademark culinary creativity. Now her restaurant was becoming more and more popular, and she was faced with the need to take on more help. She resisted, however, and had begun to work far too much for any mortal. Joe proved to be an excellent chef himself – he was not a food critic for nothing. He was from New Orleans, where his family had made a decent enough fortune in natural gas, and he had been weaned on Creole cuisine. His ideas provided Meg with the perfect foil for her own inspirations. Soon, Joe was sous-chef; weeks later, he and Meg were dating, but "just friends," as Meg insisted.

Now, Erik and Christine were seated in a quiet corner of the Vasco, chatting intimately and sharing Meg´s best after-dinner wine.

"It´s time I showed you the opera I have been working on. It´s finished now, and when we go home, we can read through it," mentioned Erik, his eagerness reflected in his eyes.

"What´s it about?" asked Christine, smiling in harmony with Erik´s joy.

"Its title is _Persephone_, and it is, of course, based on the Greek myth. I chanced upon the libretto many years ago at an estate sale – it was one of my youthful hobbies, you see. Many go to estate sales in search of jewelry, antiques, and the like. I would look through whatever books had become available, and quite often, I would encounter veritable gems. If there had been music in the household, more often than not, there would be a treasure trove. One day, I was examining the contents of just such a trove when I found this work, signed by someone named Cancemi. I did some research on him. He was an Italian-American, second-generation, and a machinist by trade. He had a passion for music and poetry which never found a public outlet, it seems. He wrote his _Persephone _hoping to find a composer who could set his words to suitable music. It´s curious; this opera uses the Greek names for its mythological characters, not the Roman ones, but Cancemi was original. He must have written this work sometime during the 1930´s, I think – he died two decades later, in 1953, and he left no descendants."

Christine was about to reply, but the curtains which hid their cozy alcove were abruptly opened, and an accordion began to play. She looked up in time to see Joe join the accordionist, and, to her horror, he began to sing. She could feel Erik stiffen beside her as Joe launched into the old ´80´s ballad, "Looking Through the Eyes of Love." It was true that Joe knew how to sing on-key, but his tenor reminded Christine vaguely of a cross between Barry Manilow and Neil Diamond, and she could feel, rather than see, the rage Erik felt at this merciless assault on his muse.

"Stop!" he roared halfway through the first refrain. "What is this outrage?"

"Just wanted to congratulate you two on your…weddings," Joe murmured sheepishly, seeing that his plan had backfired. Christine felt a pang of sympathy for him – Joe would do anything to impress Meg. But Erik continued unappeased.

"You take your accordion and your _bargain-counter _tenor, and leave us," he snarled, "You should be … mutilated for offending an accordion that way, not to mention the offense you have delivered to our own musical sensibilities…"

Erik was about to say something stronger, but Christine had grasped his left hand and was gently stroking his fingers and trying to undo his fist. He looked at her, and she returned a complicit gaze, fraught with mirth, as she stifled a giggle at the absurdity of the situation. He relaxed and smiled back at her, then turned to Joe, relenting.

"Well, you have succeeded in amusing my wife. Permit me to give you a word of advice. You are an excellent chef, but an abysmal musician. If you wish to woo Ms. Geary successfully, cook for her, _please_, but never, _ever_, contemplate singing to her."

* * *

Once they had returned home, Erik escorted Christine to the music room, happily explaining Cancemi´s interpretation of the myth of Hades and Persephone.

"You must bear in mind throughout this work that Hades´ weapon, given to him by the Cyclopes, was a helmet of darkness. He had used this weapon to depose his father, Cronus, and, with his brothers´ help, to establish the Olympian trinity: Zeus up above, Poseidon ruling the sea, and Hades in that most mysterious of kingdoms, the underworld.

"Yet a loveless eternity stretched before Hades, for who could love a being as fearsome as he? With the power he wielded, he could easily have his pick of many a maiden, mortal or immortal. Nonetheless, he found none to his liking, and loneliness and ennui accompanied him for eons. Then, one day, as he was in Zeus´ realm, up above his subterranean world, inspecting the damage an earthquake had left near one of the many entrances to his kingdom, he saw Persephone. You will remember the effect she had on him.

"Hades tried to do the right thing, at least initially. He applied to Zeus, begging for Persephone´s hand in matrimony. Zeus dithered; he feared both his brother´s wrath and the anger of Persephone´s mother, Demeter, who held power over earth´s bounty and would surely protest the match. Hades, seeing that Zeus did not plan to give him an answer, became desperate and abducted Persephone.

"You will remember the rest of the story. The earth was left barren by Demeter in her grief over her lost child, and mankind cried out in hunger. Zeus was about to force his brother to restore Persephone to Demeter ´on the single condition that she has not yet tasted the food of the dead.´ Hades was heartbroken, since his beloved had not tasted so much as a crust of bread in his presence, and he knew he would have to send the girl back to her mother. As Hermes was helping Persephone into his chariot, however, a gardener, Ascalaphus, accused her of having tasted six seeds of an underworld pomegranate. (This is where Cancemi inserts a comical aria, sung by Ascalaphus, deriding Persephone for having sold her freedom so cheaply.) Hades grins in triumph and orders Ascalaphus to perch on the back of Hermes´ chariot, so to bear witness later to Persephone´s error.

"You know the rest. Persephone must spend, in the end, only half of the year with her husband in Tartarus, and the rest she spends with her mother in presumably chaste pursuits. But her chastity is sorely tested by the arrival of the child Adonis, hidden in a chest and handed over to Persephone for safekeeping by his savior Aphrodite. Persephone becomes curious regarding the contents of the chest, and soon, like Pandora, she opens it. She is so enthralled by the beautiful Adonis that she raises him to manhood, then becomes his lover. Aphrodite and Persephone soon fight over Adonis, and the Muse Calliope acts as judge and accords each goddess an equal claim on him. Aphrodite, however, bewitches Adonis into spending all his time with her, exclusively. Persephone complains to Aphrodite´s benefactor, Ares, who murders Adonis. His blood leaves red anemones on the surface of the earth as his soul descends to Tartarus.

"This leaves Hades with an obvious problem. Just when he is congratulating himself on finally being rid of Adonis, he finds the irksome youth returning to Tartarus as a permanent resident.

"Here is where Cancemi departs from mythology and invents. He has Hades send Adonis back to Aphrodite to spend the summer. Meanwhile, Hades spends time observing Persephone while cloaked in darkness, whispering words of love. In the time he is visible to her, he wins her heart with varying doses of patience and poetry. There is a beautiful love aria written by Cancemi for Hades, and I have done my best to do the words justice."

"A love aria sung by _Hades_?" asked Christine. An image had just popped into her mind: Disney´s Hades, the blue, comically malicious incarnation of the god, complete with pointy teeth and a volcanically explosive temper. She stifled a giggle.

Erik gave her a sharp look, then handed her what she realized was the piano accompaniment for the love aria. Christine looked over the piece quickly, then played a few bars on the keyboard in mounting excitement. She could feel the beauty of the aria already, and then when Erik began to sing Hades´ part, she felt transported. It was a dark, sensuous piece, a cry _for_ love as well as a declaration _of_ love, and Erik´s voice lent it a veneer of passion that the music itself failed to contain. He approached her quietly as she accompanied, and she was amazed that her fingers did not falter on the keys; she was aware of nothing more than Erik, and of his fingers as they moved her long hair away to expose the back of her neck. The aria ended, and Christine closed her eyes. There was a pause, during which she could only hear Erik´s uneven breaths. Then she felt his mouth on her neck, biting it gently, and his arms around her back now, then under her knees as he lifted her from the bench. As he carried her to their bedroom, Christine murmured, "I´m not like your Persephone, you know. I only want you."

"Do you?" answered Erik quietly, his lips set in a grim line. Before Christine could answer him, however, he enveloped her, and coherent thought became impossible.

* * *

Christine arrived at the Greene Street Soup Kitchen the following Sunday in a pensive mood. Erik had been pressuring her, albeit gently, to leave her volunteer activities – there were security issues, he said. Yet how could she give up all the wonderful hours she was spending with Meg?

As she left Jake in the dining hall up front to go to the kitchen, she passed another volunteer, a new one, who pressed something into her hand. She looked at the item, bewildered, once she had entered the kitchen.

It was a note from Raoul, addressed to her.


	16. Chapter 16

A thousand thanks to all those who have so kindly reviewed!

Someone kindly pointed out an error, now corrected, in my last chapter. Ares was NOT Aphrodite´s husband, but her consort, or, as Robert Graves puts it, her "benefactor." (Hmm.)

I am forced to mention that I did not rely on _Wikipedia_ at all for my research regarding Persephone. In fact, I´ve never even seen its article on her. I have Robert Graves´ _The Greek Myths_, which is an excellent reference book written by an illustrious poet, classical scholar, and Oxford don (anyone read _I, Claudius _lately?). Any similarities between my prose and the _Wikipedia _article are purely coincidental.

I do not own POTO, or its characters.

* * *

Christine read the note quickly. Blood pounded in her ears, and the world seemed to spin for a moment. In the kitchen, people moved around her, and she could hear Meg´s voice in the dining area. She assessed her situation: Jake was in the front part of the dining area and would probably stay there until her shift was over. The other volunteers in the kitchen area would not notice or comment on her comings and goings, since she had always kept a discreet presence in the most isolated corner of the kitchen, chatting with Meg as much as possible. And speaking of Meg…

"Hey, Girlfriend, did you see what we´re in for today? We´ve got _tons _of garbanzos today that we can´t do anything with, but someone soaked them and left them for us. So, we can get a pressure cooker or we can plant them outdoors and have nice little chickpea vines! Are you okay?" She said, suddenly noticing Christine´s nervous demeanor.

"No, Meg, I´m not okay. Please don´t ask questions, and please don´t tell Jake, but I have to leave, alright? I´ll be back before the shift ends, but I really have to do something right now."

Christine picked up her purse and stuffed Raoul´s note into it, then looked at Meg, who was watching her worriedly. "Please, Meg," she said.

"I´m your friend, Christine, and I won´t rat you out, but you´re really nervous and obviously upset. So, I won´t ask you what you´re thinking of doing, but I will ask you one thing. Stop a minute. Is what you´re going to do something safe? Is it worth the risk you´re taking – yes, you know _exactly_ what I´m talking about!" Meg grasped Christine´s arm and looked at her earnestly. "Is this worth the risk?"

Christine disengaged Meg´s hand from her arm gently, gave it a squeeze, and gave her a sad smile. "I have to do this, Meg," she said, and, picking up a bag of garbage, she exited through the back door as unobtrusively as possible.

* * *

Once outside, Christine dumped the garbage in the bin and looked around. She was grateful she still remembered the bus schedule so well. The Number 8 to Raoul´s neighborhood would be leaving in ten minutes, so she made her way towards the bus stop, careful to avoid passing in front of the Soup Kitchen, where Jake might see her.

In thirty minutes she stood in front of Raoul´s door, hesitating to ring the bell. What was she doing? She could hear the sound of a television. _Some things never change._

Christine was about to turn away from the door without having rung the bell. _I need time to think,_ she told herself. Yet the door opened suddenly, and Raoul stood there in the doorway, looking at her. Christine was nervous and nonplussed. She tried to hide it, though, and said quietly, "I received your note. I haven´t got much time. You promised an explanation?"

Raoul looked surprised by Christine´s message and tone, but he nodded and ushered her into the living room. She sat down on the sofa opposite Raoul´s, taking care to remain as far away from him as possible. He seemed to notice, and offered her a bitter smile. He sat, his elbows on his knees, running his hands over his face tiredly, and Christine noticed that he looked older. Her eyes strayed from his figure to take in the rest of the apartment. Things were tidy, it was true – everything was neatly stacked, positioned, and organized – but the apartment was not clean. The air was stale-smelling, and the light picked up smudges everywhere. There was a mark on the wall, and she knew what it was – someone had not cleaned her hands after applying her makeup, and had then brushed the wall with the dirty hand. She looked down at the floor and noticed that Raoul was still in the habit of clipping his fingernails as he watched television. There were fragments of chips on the floor, and rings on the coffee table. There was something else, too: discarded fingernail tips of the type one glues on, some with polish, others without. They seemed to be everywhere. Then Christine noticed something move, and she jumped up and stifled a scream. Raoul, startled out of his reverie, followed Christine´s gaze and laughed bitterly as he watched the cockroach scuttle away.

"That´s just one of Chelsea´s pets," he said.

"Chelsea?"

"It´s a long story."

"I don´t have time for it, then, Raoul. I don´t want to hear about Chelsea, I just want to know why you think my husband murdered Phil. That´s why I´m here."

"Straight to the chase, huh, honey? Yeah, I missed you, too. Alright, alright, I´ll give you the whole sordid tale. You know that Phil liked to work out a lot? How he always liked to keep buff and all?"

Christine nodded. Phil had been very proud of his musculature and would flex his biceps every time a girl walked by – sometimes, even when guys would walk by. He could be very confusing.

"Well, you probably know he was into steroids. He was thinking of going into competition, you know? About the time Phil was really getting into the idea, deep, there was this rumor. Said Jayne Pharmaceuticals had developed the Holy Grail of bodybuilders, something that beefs you up better than steroids – lots of fiber, lots of volume – but doesn´t leave a trace of itself in your blood samples, or your urine samples, either. Sounded too good to be true, but Phil was intrigued, and he knew Erik Darrow owned a controlling interest in Jayne. He was righteously pissed at Darrow because of what happened to my family with those futures. Guess you heard about that?"

Christine nodded. "I heard. Phil himself let me know, indirectly."

"Well, I know it wasn´t Darrow´s fault, but it was weird, and Phil did blame him. Then an old friend of Phil´s, John, who worked at Darrow´s Meade Street office got in touch with him. Said he knew where he could lay his hands on a vial of injectable Prorodax – that was the name of Jayne´s new bodybuilding drug, you know – but the problem was that it was in Darrow´s house in Seattle. Well, Phil was really hot to get his hands on that stuff, and he wanted to screw Darrow over in the process, so he begged John to help him. John made Phil promise never to let anyone know he had helped him out – it would mean his job and a lawsuit, he said – so Phil promised. John gave him information about weaknesses in the security system at the house in Seattle, and where to get in so that the alarm wouldn´t trip. He also let him know where to find the vial of Prorodax.

"Do I have to tell you the rest, Christine? Phil flew to Seattle. You probably know that there was a break-in at Darrow´s house, and that since nothing obvious was taken it wasn´t reported to the police. Phil helped himself to a nice injection of what he thought was Prorodax. Turned out to be something else. _Post-infectious encephalomyelitis,_ they called it at the hospital he finally went to. The doctors said maybe it happened because of the mono he had some time ago, but they didn´t know why it was so strong, so _progressive, _and so drug-resistant. But Phil knew the truth. Darrow had planned all of this, and he had fallen into his trap. Phil called me before he died, you know, and I went to be with him. He told me everything.

"It was the perfect crime, wasn´t it, Christine? How could Phil tell anyone what had happened? He had broken into someone´s house, stolen a drug that doesn´t exist, and injected himself with it. And it killed him. How much do you know about this person you married, Christine? Has he told you about all the rumors? They say he has a history. They say if anyone crosses him, he disappears. Whatever they say, I know one thing – he murdered my brother."

Christine felt ice cold, and she was trembling. She sat, unable to say anything, while Raoul watched her. He appeared to feel sympathy for her.

"Things don´t have to be this way, Christine. You don´t have to be married to Darrow. You can get divorced, or annulled, or whatever you need to do."

Christine looked at him, miserable and wordless.

"I could help you, you know," Raoul continued softly. "I´ve missed you, Christine. I love you, and that hasn´t changed. I know I wasn´t always there for you, but things are different now. I know what my mistakes were, and I´m willing to work things out."

"I love Erik, Raoul," Christine said, hoping to terminate his line of conversation. Her voice sounded distant to her own ears, and tears blinded her.

"How can you love someone you don´t know? Tell me you knew he could do what he did, and I´ll leave you alone forever! We could go away together, to where he could never find you, you know. There are ways, I know there are ways you could use to get away from him…"

"Indeed? Please, enlighten me as to how you hope to accomplish _that_?" came Erik´s voice, as icy as the winter wind, from the far corner of the room. He seemed to glide to the center of the room, stopping to stand just behind Raoul.

"I think it´s time you and I had another little chat, Mr. De Chagny," Erik hissed. "And it will be our final one."


	17. Chapter 17

Chrysler Imperial roses to those who have reviewed!

I do not own POTO, or its characters

* * *

Raoul froze as Erik moved toward Christine, who showed no sign of fear or even tension upon seeing her husband appear suddenly and silently, like an apparition. _Could she be accustomed to this? _

"Erik," she said, her voice thick with repressed tears. She stood as he approached her, and he gathered her into an embrace. Despite the softness of his tones, Raoul could hear the words Erik murmured into Christine´s ear.

"You don´t belong here, my love. You´re tired now; soon I´ll take you home, but for now you should rest. Sleep, Christine – think of nothing right now…"

Raoul watched in detached fascination as Christine gradually slumped in Erik´s arms. He placed her carefully on the sofa and, bending over her, carefully moved a tendril of hair out of her face. Then he straightened to his full height and turned to regard Raoul – and became another being entirely.

No trace of the gentle man who had just touched Christine remained in his bearing or visage. He seemed to grow and darken, and Raoul felt terror clutch his heart. As Erik came nearer to him, he tried to control his panic, and he did the first thing that occurred to his frenzied mind: he rushed Erik.

He realized, too late, that he had committed a grievous error. Erik deflected him easily, then actually lifted him and _carried _him across the room, pinning him against a wall. Rage emanated from Erik´s entire frame, but it was a cold, silent type of emotion, terrifying and lethal.

"You _dare _to try to take my wife. You _dare _to interfere in our lives. I went out of my way to warn you against such behavior, Mr. De Chagny…" His voice was a lash.

Raoul tried instinctively to divert Erik´s thoughts from Christine.

"You killed my brother!" He choked out, his mind frantic.

Erik stilled for a moment, then blinked thoughtfully.

"No, Mr. De Chagny, I did not kill your brother. He killed himself," he said quietly. "I am not in the habit of murdering people…at least, not since Christine." The latter part was spoken more quietly, almost to himself.

"You set him up!" screamed Raoul, beside himself now.

Raoul´s desperate fury seemed to feed Erik´s calm.

"I simply set up a formula, Mr. De Chagny," he said. "You see, the global economy, the behavior of corporations, and even of individual people can all be translated into mathematical formulae with changing variables.

"The house in Seattle, the vial, and the information your brother received from John were all innocuous _constants._ The dangerous _variable_ in this formula was what your brother might do: his _free will._ He could have done the honorable thing. He could have left well enough alone and refused to touch what he had no business touching. I knew that the realm of probability indicated your brother would do what he did, but I could not help hoping he would surprise me. I must admit I was disappointed."

"You _bastard!_" screamed Raoul. Erik shook him roughly.

"You mourn and defend a bully who had the beastly gall to attack my wife! I simply made certain that he received what he deserved, and to top it off, I offered him a final choice: decent behavior or criminal behavior. It´s not my fault he chose the latter and, in so doing, he sealed his fate.

"Tell me, Mr. De Chagny, did it ever occur to you to defend Christine against anyone, even your own family? You simply assisted in making her a scapegoat, an easy victim for any mindless ape who enjoyed an advantage over her. Let me tell you something, so that it will be clear, even to your challenged mentality – Christine is my wife now, and _no one _touches or offends her – not your asinine ass of a brother, and certainly not _you._"

Erik had produced what appeared to be rope and proceeded to bind and hogtie Raoul with remarkable efficiency, in spite of the younger man´s struggle against him. Raoul noticed that his bindings were of a soft, nonabrasive material, although they held him fast. When he had finished, Erik moved the material aside slightly to examine the skin beneath them.

"Good," he murmured, "They will leave no marks."

Raoul panicked. "What the HELL are you thinking of doing?"

"It´s rather simple," said Erik. "You are about to die in a yachting accident off the coast. The boat belongs to a friend of the family, and you are about to ´borrow´ it – rather unwisely, considering the state of the weather this evening…"

"Christine will know what happened! She´ll tell the police!" Raoul desperately searched his mind for something he could say which might faze Erik. "She´ll hate you!"

"No, Mr. De Chagny," said Erik quietly, even with a touch of sadness. "She will not remember this evening at all. Her conversation with you will be nothing but a blank, and no mortal will remember it but myself."

And with that, Erik gagged Raoul. He turned, and his eyes swept the room, then came to rest on Christine´s purse. He crossed the room, picked up the purse, and opened it, examining its contents until he came to the letter she had crumpled up inside. Through some sleight of hand he produced a flame and burned the incriminating document in an ashtray. Raoul watched as Erik pulled out Christine´s cellphone, submitted it to a quick examination, and then started to put it back inside her purse. He paused a moment, as though he had just noticed something, and Raoul saw him pull a small envelope out of the purse. Erik opened it and unfolded and read the paper he found inside. His hand trembled, and he blanched. He dropped the letter, stared into space for a moment, then gathered his courage, picked the paper up, and read it again. He stood there, document in hand, staring fixedly at it for several long moments.

* * *

Christine awakened slowly from a long slumber – at least, it had seemed a long slumber. The clock on the wall indicated that she had only been asleep for an hour. She was still in Raoul´s living room, and Erik was hovering over her. Her mind gradually cleared, and she remembered…._Raoul!_ She sat up with a start. Erik sat and embraced her, calming her, and whispering quietly into her ear.

"Raoul?" she asked, frightened of what the answer might be.

Erik grimaced his displeasure. "Over there," he indicated with a nod, and Christine heard a stifled groan. She looked behind the other sofa and saw Raoul on the floor – bound, gagged, and hog-tied.

"Erik!" she said, horrified. She was still quite groggy, and she said the first thing that came to mind: "You´ve tied up Raoul!"

"He offered me no alternative, my love," said Erik, soothingly, "He attacked me right after you fainted."

"He´s got a gag in his mouth," Christine observed.

"I did not feel the need to listen to his insults for the better part of an hour," Erik said, tersely.

"But, Erik, you can´t just go around tying people up whenever you feel like it," groaned Christine, running a hand through her hair and trying to bring herself to a tolerable state of wakefulness.

"He´s completely comfortable. The material I used to bind him is excellent, very soft, and will not so much as scratch his delicate skin… I´m thinking about applying for a patent on it," mused Erik.

"Really?" said Christine, reflexively; then she remembered the crux of the situation and exploded. "Erik! You have to untie Raoul!"

"Not at the moment. Christine, we need to talk this instant. Mr. De Chagny can wait comfortably in the living room while we speak in private, in the kitchen."

Christine acquiesced wearily, and she and Erik entered the kitchen. As she turned the light on, over a dozen cockroaches scattered in as many different directions. Christine shrieked, adrenalin flowing through her body, suddenly. She was wide awake now! She surveyed the kitchen. There were plates stacked up in the sink with remnants of food on them. No one had wiped the counter in a long time, and the garbage stank. She eyed the kitchen table suspiciously. It looked no cleaner than the rest of the kitchen, but maybe if she sat with her feet lifted carefully off the floor….

"I think that we shall converse in the living room," said Erik, his lip curling up in disgust. "_Mr. De Chagny_ can wait in the kitchen."

Erik picked Raoul up, carried him into the kitchen, and dumped him unceremoniously onto the floor. Raoul fought and protested as much as he could during the ordeal, but he only succeeded in turning scarlet and gurgling pathetically.

Erik escorted Christine back into the living room, and they both settled onto the same sofa, facing each other. He took both her hands gently into his, and, fixing his gaze on hers, initiated the conversation.

"When, exactly, were you going to tell me that you´re expecting?"


	18. Chapter 18

Roses and chocolates to all the charitable souls who have taken the time and trouble to review!

I do not own POTO, or its characters.

* * *

"When, exactly, were you going to tell me that you´re expecting?"

Christine felt the blood rush to her face. _How on earth did he know? _ Erik´s gaze held hers, glowing with apparent calm, but she could feel his tension.

"Oh… _that!"_ she said, awkwardly, her mind desperately searching for words. Finally mustering her courage, she met Erik´s question head on.

"I was going to tell you tonight, after my shift at Greene Street. You usually offer me a sherry, you know? Well, I was going to refuse the drink and let you know exactly why I shouldn´t be drinking alcohol. I´ve been worried about how you would react, Erik – that´s the only reason I didn´t tell you right away…" she trailed off.

Erik´s gaze remained unwavering, until he released Christine´s hands and stood. He looked at her again for several long moments, then started to pace.

"How did this happen?" he asked.

Christine was about to say something flippant, but she knew what Erik was asking her and did not dare try a humorous approach. She decided to use her usual method: frank, brutal honesty.

"You know I´ve been on the Pill, Erik, and you know how reliable it is. It was not a failure of the contraceptive – it was something I did.

"You remember the hard time Father Joseph gave me about contraception? Maybe you thought you had put him off, but he took me aside one day after confession and told me that if I did not promise to stop taking the Pill he could not in good conscience marry us in the Church. Well, I promised, but I thought of a hedge. If I stopped taking the Pill during _one month_, then went back on immediately, I would have kept my promise, technically, right? And I didn´t think it likely that something would happen in one little month…" -- Here, Erik delivered her a scathing glance, --"…but it did."

There was a silence as Erik paced and Christine sat, lost in thought. Then she spoke.

"I found out just this Friday when I asked Dr. Joan to renew my prescription. I told her what I had done and she nearly killed me. Then she tested me. I couldn´t believe it. I didn´t think this could happen in so short a time…I mean, there are couples who try for years…"

"That´s an excuse, nothing more," said Erik. Then he abruptly sat down beside Christine again, fixing a penetrating gaze on her once more. "You wanted this," he said, almost tentatively.

Christine reflected a long moment, looking at her hands, unable to meet Erik´s eyes. Finally, she looked at him.

"Yes," she said. "I wanted this. I…I want this. Erik, I love you, and I love our life together, but I want a family with you, too. I always seem to be the one to react, you know? When you decided we´d marry, you didn´t even propose, but I was happy and I went along. I was so happy to be asked – well, _told_, that I would be working with you, that I never said a word against that idea, either, and I adore my work. I look at myself, and I seem so passive at times!

"But I want this, I really do. I´m sorry I didn´t discuss this with you. But, don´t you think it´s about time _I _dragged _you _into something for a change?"

Erik smiled then, the tension leaving his shoulders, and he embraced Christine once more. "Nothing could make me happier," he said, softly.

They were content to stay that way in silence for half an hour. Erik´s joy was of a quiet kind, and Christine was happy as he held her. But something was nagging at the corner of Christine´s thoughts.

"Erik, what about Raoul?"

"What about him?"

"He said…he told me…"

"Christine, Phil de Chagny died of encephalitis. You don´t honestly think I go about giving people encephalitis, do you? What a dark, far-fetched fantasy Mr. De Chagny has spun you! He has a marvelous imagination, for an accountant. There is no such pharmaceutical as the performance-enhancing drug he mentions, at least not at Jayne Pharmaceuticals. It simply doesn´t exist. What did he call it? The _Holy Grail_ of bodybuilders? My word!

"You know we never found out who broke into our house, though you can check with the staff there. Perhaps they have a theory…"

"Raoul had never lied to me before; it´s so odd," ventured Christine.

"I have no doubt his brother told him some wild tale, eaten up as he was with brain-fever and hatred of me. And Mr. De Chagny is in a dangerous frame of mind now, Christine," said Erik, his voice lowering to confide his next idea to her.

"He is the worst kind of fool, and it´s dangerous to leave him loose. He lost you, and life without you has taught him to appreciate just what he lost. I knew the day would come when he would try to take you, Christine; I was ready, and I was waiting. Now, however, the question remains – What shall I _do _with the stupid boy?"

The turning of a key in the lock in the front door was heard, suddenly, and both Erik and Christine stiffened. Raoul renewed his muffled protests from the kitchen in earnest, and Chelsea walked in. Someone had posted bail for her, evidently.

She stopped and stared, stunned, as she saw Erik and Christine in the living room. Then she noticed the noise coming from the kitchen and went to look through the doorway. Her jaw dropped, and she put her hands on her hips in outrage as she stared at Raoul.

"Raoul De Chagny! You been having fun without me?" she asked, staring in offense and indignation at his bindings. Raoul managed a squawk; Erik and Christine joined Chelsea at the doorway of the kitchen, and all three stared at Raoul. Raoul stared back, turning steadily redder until he had achieved an admirable shade of carmine. His eyes bulged.

"We have to untie him, Erik!" said Christine. Chelsea rounded on her, enraged.

"You don´t touch him, bitch!" she snarled. Erik winced and stared at Chelsea.

"You may unbind your _boyfriend_ if you promise to treat my wife with respect," hissed Erik. Chelsea froze, feeling the hostility in Erik´s bearing. She had sense enough to fear him, and she nodded silently.

Chelsea worked at Raoul´s bindings, and she had soon liberated all but his hands. She contemplated the ropes. "These are nice. Can I keep them?" she asked, eyeing Erik doubtfully.

"Yes," he hissed. Chelsea seemed satisfied, then turned to Raoul, who was standing now, and removed his gag.

"So, you´re going to kill me now, right?" Raoul snarled at Erik, as soon as the gag was off.

"Oh, no, Mr. De Chagny, I wouldn´t dream of it," said Erik, looking from Raoul to Chelsea with a malicious smile. "I´m going to do something _far worse_…_"_

* * *

Erik directed Raoul and Chelsea to one of the sofas in the living room, while he had Christine sit as far away from them as possible on the opposite sofa. He himself remained standing, and he addressed the couple.

"Ms. Taylor, I will get right to the point. I sympathize with you. You expect and, indeed, _deserve_, more from Mr. De Chagny than he has been giving you, both sentimentally and in terms of commitment…."

"What the _hell…_" interjected Raoul, but he was interrupted by Chelsea.

"Shut up! He´s right! He´s the first person besides Tracy to understand us! Go on, Mr. Darrow," she said, watching Erik eagerly.

"And Mr. De Chagny," continued Erik, "Your misguided pursuit of _my wife _is merely symptomatic of your denial of the deep feelings you actually possess for Ms. Taylor…"

"It´s true! Me and Tracy were agreeing on exactly the same thing," interrupted Chelsea excitedly. Erik winced. "You´ve been afraid of your own feelings, but everyone knows you love me," she said to Raoul, who remained speechless at that moment. His mouth opened, then closed.

Erik paused, then proceeded.

"I am always happy to assist young people such as yourselves with their sentimental crises, and today I am prepared to be exceptionally generous.

"You see, I am a great romantic at heart, and I believe I hear the sound of wedding bells for you two. I firmly believe you are perfect for each other."

Chelsea beamed, but Raoul looked horrified. He found his voice.

"This is bullshit! You´re insane if you think…"

"Before you alienate everyone else in this room, Mr. De Chagny, permit me to enumerate the advantages wedlock will have for you. Firstly, I can guarantee your safety from such contretemps as maritime accidents should you proceed with this step. Secondly, I am in a position to restore your family´s wealth – that includes your own, of course – to its former bluestocking glory. I will put this promise in writing for you, if you wish, and have my lawyers draw up a contract. However, the contract will not be unilateral. You are never again to approach my wife under any circumstances, and I wish for your assurance that you will not – in writing. One step in her direction and you will never enjoy maid service again."

Raoul looked pained and confused. He ventured a longing glance in Christine´s direction, at which Erik bristled, then snarled, "Please refrain from looking at my wife!"

"Yeah!" agreed Chelsea, and all eyes turned to her. Erik contemplated her for a moment.

"Miss Taylor," said Erik, and she shrank visibly into the sofa, "my wife and I did not appreciate your little attack on her credit rating. I understand why your family finally cut off your line of credit; you´re a profligate spender. The money you and your husband will receive will be sufficient for you to behave as a princess might, but _not _as an empress would. I beg you to show restraint, and never to think of usurping anyone´s identity, ever again. You will leave my wife alone, physically and financially. You will sign a contract to that effect. Agreed?"

"Done!" chirped Chelsea, nodding enthusiastically.

Raoul stole another glance at Christine. Erik stiffened, then added, "I might explain the reason I´m in such a generous mood this evening. It seems my wife and I are expecting our first child…"

"Oh, that's _wonderful_!" gushed Chelsea, looking genuinely happy. "Congratulations!"

Raoul, on the other hand, had turned green and was staring at Christine in open horror now.

"Come, Mr. De Chagny," said Erik, "this is the best outcome for all involved. I have no doubt that both your family and Ms. Taylor´s would welcome this match. Moreover, I have observed that you are not accustomed to living without wealth. You simply do not know how. This marriage will save you." He looked at Raoul, assessing his reaction.

Raoul´s shoulders slumped, and he took on a sullen, resigned look.

"We accept!" shouted Chelsea, and pulling her cellphone out of her purse, walked to the kitchen to spread her joyous news.


	19. Chapter 19

Blessings on all those kind souls who have reviewed!

Here´s a longish chapter. Had a bit of trouble with it, so I hope it´s coherent.

I do not own POTO, or its characters.

* * *

Christine had expected to find the limousine waiting for them when they left Raoul´s apartment. Instead, they found Erik´s discreet black Volvo where he had left it – parked on the sidewalk, testament to his haste earlier in the evening. _It´s a miracle it wasn´t towed, _thought Christine as Erik drove them home. As soon as they arrived, she made a phone call to Meg.

"Hey, I was so worried about you! Did you go to see Raoul?" Meg asked, her voice filled with reproach.

"Yeah, I´m afraid I did…"

"After I told you not to! How many times did I tell you not to? What good can come of it, now, tell me?"

"He´s getting married."

There was a pause.

"Married? The jerk who could never commit is getting _married_? And let me guess to who….oh, no, now, it can´t be! Please tell me it´s _not_…."

"It is. She´s thrilled," said Christine.

"Oh, _no_! Do you know what that means? The whole city is going to have to deal with Bridezilla!"

* * *

It was true. As soon as Chelsea had delivered the good news to her parents, who were duly thrilled, she besieged a total of eighty-seven wedding professionals. The nuptials were set to take place in three months, and as the weeks went by, they became so vulgar and elaborate that they were the talk of the social scene. The dress was the most gaudy and expensive one available ("150 Chinese are working on it in some sweatshop even as we speak," Meg sneered). There would be several huge cakes designed to feed hundreds of guests, plus an orchestra. The rice was to be colored to match the bridesmaids´ dresses, which were to match the napkins and centerpieces and all cummerbunds, of course. The bride and groom were to arrive in style in a horse-drawn carriage, complete with footman. At the end of the fête, they were to exit in a hot-air balloon.

The ceremony itself would involve exchanging vows that the bride and groom were to elaborate personally. When Raoul refused to write his vows, Chelsea happily did the job for him.

Erik, as ever, was as good as his word, and the De Chagny family found itself wealthy once more. Raoul, it seemed, had secretly invested some of the money his parents had given him over the past year, and the investment had yielded remarkable returns. Raoul´s parents did not question this story, although many of their peers did, and quietly speculated about what illegal or shady businesses the De Chagnys must have undertaken to acquire such wealth so suddenly.

These days, Erik glowed with unaccustomed tranquility at having disposed of his worst enemy at a pen´s stroke. He little suspected that he had revealed a side of his character to his wife which had frightened her to the core of her being.

Christine had seen the murderous look in Erik´s eyes before he had rendered her unconscious that evening at Raoul´s, and she thought about what it had implied. Then, she considered the evidence, and the scales fell from her eyes. Her husband had done murder at one time or another, she knew it now. He had been the agent of Phil´s death, and he had nearly murdered Raoul; only his discovery of her pregnancy had stopped him. This, she knew, and she was heartbroken and troubled.

She wondered if her presence in his life might be bringing out her husband´s worst impulses. If she and Erik had never met, Phil would certainly be alive, and Raoul would never have been in danger. What would the future bring? And if she thought of the greater good, and forced herself to leave Erik, what might happen? She needed to speak with Nadir alone.

If Erik was oblivious to Christine´s worries, it was because she had learned, very carefully and discreetly, how to hide from him. It was not simply that she had learned to control her physical expressions of emotion around him. She had schooled herself to deflect him mentally, as well. Erik´s nightly and matinal forays into her mind continued, but she had learned to organize her thoughts and put up barriers; now, he only enjoyed access to the thoughts, feelings and experiences she was _willing_ to share with him, and he was none the wiser.

* * *

Erik did discover Christine´s secret one day, however.

Both Erik and Christine had been appalled to find that Chelsea had invited them both to her wedding. They would not be attending, of course, but they would need to send an appropriate wedding gift.

Erik had surprised Christine. "I will choose their gift myself," he said.

The very next week, Christine had walked into his office on the upper floor to find that he had, indeed, chosen a gift for them. It was a splendidly rendered wooden model of a yacht, beautifully varnished and exquisitely detailed, about five feet long from prow to stern.

"Well, what do you think?" asked Erik, smiling. Christine examined the model more closely and noted the name of the vessel, written neatly on the hull: The_ Alternative. _

"It´s lovely," she choked, letting her carefully constructed façade fall in her confusion. She was remembering that night in Raoul´s apartment and Erik´s reference to "maritime accidents." The meaning of Erik´s gift hit her like a blow. Too late, she realized that Erik was watching her carefully, his eyes narrowing. In that instant, he knew she had been hiding from him. And she knew that he knew.

The electricity in the air was palpable. Christine averted her eyes from Erik´s.

"Excuse me…" she said, and, turning rapidly, she exited the office and walked at a quick pace down the hallway. Erik´s hand on her arm stopped her in her tracks, however.

"Look at me, Christine," he said. She automatically suppressed her emotions and looked into her husband´s eyes as coolly as possible.

Erik´s eyes burned with anger as they looked into Christine´s.

"You know," he said slowly, "I think you are rather fatigued. Perhaps you could do with a bit of rest."

"Oh, no, Erik, I really don´t need…"

"But you do, my love, believe me," he said, escorting Christine to the bedroom with more force than was perhaps necessary. Once he had closed the door, he kissed her deeply and for such a long time that Christine had to push away from him for air. He carried her to the bed, and, bending over her, spoke in deceptively soft tones.

"It seems that there is something on your mind, Christine – something you have not cared to share with me. Are you worried about Mr. De Chagny, perhaps? Does he still occupy a portion of your thoughts?"

Erik undressed Christine gently, and she breathed deeply, trying to keep her wits about her. His hands caressed the curves and planes of her body softly, coming to rest for a moment on her belly. It was still flat, as she was only midway through the first trimester of her pregnancy now. Erik´s hands continued, over her ribcage, her breasts, now caressing her cheeks and forehead. His ministrations progressed into lovemaking, and, for the first time, Christine was tense. He was gentle, so very gentle, but she knew what would come. She marshaled her defenses as she felt the inevitable probing into her mind. He was subtle, but she could feel him at the threshold, now turning over her thoughts, now searching for her fears. She deflected him as he approached her fears, and he withdrew.

Erik held her for a long time, contemplating her, his arms like iron around her.

Their nights and mornings became extended battles, with Erik attempting to undermine Christine´s defenses, while she, in turn, grew stronger and more agile in her resolve never to yield to him. During their workdays together, she would catch Erik watching her with increasing frequency. Nadir watched them both in obvious bewilderment.

She started taking naps during their workdays. The tension, along with the hormonal changes that pregnancy had wrought upon her, had left her exhausted.

Christine was awakening from one such siesta one day when she noticed that Erik had left the room, and she was in a rare and privileged position – she was alone with Nadir. She approached him and watched as he took notes on information he was receiving from a bank in Hong Kong. He looked up and smiled at her in greeting.

"How have you been feeling?" he asked solicitously.

"Oh, I´m fine. I´ve not had any nausea at all. I just fall asleep every five minutes," she said apologetically. "Nadir, I´ve been wondering….could I ask you a question?"

"Well, of course, though I don´t guarantee any answers. Does this have anything to do with what´s going on between you and Erik?"

"You know it does," she sighed. "I have a worry I just can´t air with him, and it´s killing us both. He wants to have it out, and I would like to bury it. Maybe if you could tell me…"

"I´ll help as much as I can," offered Nadir.

"I know that Erik killed people before I knew him, and I know he had something to do with Phil´s death. He came close to killing Raoul, too."

Nadir looked at Christine sadly. "Go on."

"You once said I was good for Erik. I don´t know how that can be so, if I inspire murder in him. Am I _really _good for him, Nadir? What if he kills someone else because of me? What if I had to leave him? What would happen then?"

"Many more people would die," came Erik´s voice from the doorway. He approached Christine, and Nadir did not wait to be told to leave; he exited as quickly and quietly as possible.

"So _this _is what you have been hiding from me," whispered Erik, moving a strand of hair out of Christine´s face, then pulling her into a gentle but resolute embrace.

"Never leave me, Christine. If you should do so, I would bathe the world in blood.

"You are correct. I have murdered, quite often, and in sundry and creative ways. I never cared to burden you with that information, or with any such information from my past. I wish for my past to remain buried – such evil deserves to stay buried. It will remain that way as long as you are in my life.

"Have I told you about my mother? No? She detested me. She felt that if I was born with a devil´s face, then I must be a devil. Other people shared her opinion and acted accordingly.

"I was not a member of the human race, Christine. Membership has its privileges, and I might have bemoaned their absence, but I was too intelligent for that. I made good use of the liberties accorded the beast who lives in moral exile. Who could blame me if I had to kill to defend myself, or to eat, or, finally, to eliminate my adversaries? The only beauty in my entire existence was music.

"When you came into my life, you made me human. I´ll tell you a little secret: I was not happy to find I had fallen in love with you, Christine. I railed against my weakness, and I tried every trick I knew to cure myself of it. It was sheer stupidity to resist, in the end.

"People were often surprised to find that I, a monster, possessed intelligence unlike anyone else´s. I was appalled to find that I have a heart unlike any other. It loves only once, and it loves forever – and it loves only you, Christine!

"What Nadir has told you is true. You have made me human, and you have made me happy. You have stayed my hand more times than you will know. I take no pleasure in harming anyone, now, with the exception of Mr. De Chagny. He represents my worst fear, you see, and I need not tell you what it is.

"You have a great responsibility, Christine. Know that if you leave me, I will no longer be human, and I will sow death wherever I can.

"Stay with me. Love me. I will not kill again, ever, if you do this for me. I need you, Christine…"

He was crying now, and Christine held him, kissed him, and shushed him gently, as though he were a child. He became calmer as she made the promises she knew he needed to hear.

They spent several hours clinging to each other, and when they finally emerged from the basement, Christine found Meg waiting for her in the living room.


	20. Chapter 20

Blessings on all my beloved reviewers, past, present, and future!

Finally, the last chapter!

I do not own POTO, or its characters.

* * *

Erik nodded a greeting to Meg, then reluctantly left the women alone so that they could chat in privacy. Christine glanced at him as he went; his bearing was cool, regal and elegant once more, and no trace of the vulnerability he had shown her earlier remained.

She turned her attention to Meg. Visits from Meg were rare – in fact, this was the first time she had been to the house since she had brought Christine´s sparse worldly possessions from Raoul´s apartment. She and Meg spoke frequently by phone and worked together every Sunday, but Meg´s hectic schedule prevented them from spending more time together.

Meg had obviously come in a hurry. She had taken off her apron, but now she sat twisting it in her hands, her agitation more than evident. She stood and approached Christine as soon as Erik had left.

"Christine," she said, her voice thick with a suppressed sob.

"Meg, what´s wrong? Aren´t you supposed to be at work now? What´s happened?" asked Christine anxiously. Meg was usually a rock.

Then the dam broke, and Meg burst into tears. Christine folded her into a hug, and tried to coax her friend to speak between sobs. Finally, a story materialized.

"Joe…he asked me…"

"Yes? Joe asked you?"

"He asked me….to get… married!" Meg said, between hiccoughing sobs.

Christine nodded, unsurprised. She had been expecting Joe to propose, sooner or later. She had worried about how he would assimilate Meg´s inevitable rejection. She steeled herself for the worst.

"Meg…what happened?"

"I…I…told him…_yes_!" Meg sobbed, and with that, she started to cry in earnest.

Christine had always known how much Meg cherished her freedom and independence, and sudden understanding dawned on her.

"You really love Joe, don´t you?" she asked.

Meg nodded mutely. Christine rubbed her back, calming her and thinking.

"How do you suppose he feels about extremely long engagements?" asked Christine.

Meg responded with a tired giggle, and Christine relaxed. The world had not ended, after all. They sat together in silence for a while, both lost in thought.

"Things are changing, you know," said Meg, "and I didn´t really want them to. I have responsibilities now. Before, the restaurant was just fun and passion, but now I´m an _entrepreneur._ And now I have Joe.

"I can deal with jerks. They come and go, and they´re always good for a laugh, but Joe´s different. He´s a nice guy, he´s a keeper. It scares me how I feel about him.

"And then there´s you, Christine. Erik´s great, he never wanted to change you or mess with our friendship, but when´s your baby due? Mid-June? Will we have time for each other then?"

"We´ll _make _time, Meg. You´ll see," said Christine firmly, fervently hoping it was true. "And will I be matron of honor at your wedding?" she added, teasingly.

"Oh, _no_! Never! No wedding, please, Lord! I don´t want a _wedding_! If Joe´s lucky, I´ll show up for our elopement!"

* * *

By the time Chelsea´s wedding day had arrived, 87 wedding professionals were wishing that _she_ had decided to elope. She had fought with nearly all of them.

The church and banquet hall were located on the same street, a situation which Chelsea thought convenient – until a backhoe perforated a sewer main on the day before her wedding. The stench was horrendous, and though emergency crews had been sent out to clean and control the mess, the zone remained odiferous on the De Chagnys´ wedding day. This was the first impression guests received upon arriving at the church, and it remained with them as they left the church to go to the hall.

The exchange of vows had not helped matters. Chelsea had recited hers with enthusiasm; she stood, smiling radiantly, waiting for Raoul to recite the vows she had written for him. He pulled a worn paper out of his pocket sullenly, and proceeded to recite, in flat tones, "O Queen of my Heart, Love of my Life, I am blinded by your beauty. Let me wake up beside you every morning and I will be your willing" – here, he gulped – "slave. I promise to dedicate every atom of my being to your happiness, because my love for you is … _eternal_. This I, your humble servant, promise, now and forever," he ended, depressed resignation in his voice. Chelsea beamed.

There was a murmur throughout the congregation at this, along with a few giggles. Several people commented, later, that if they had not known better, they would think that Raoul had been _forced _to marry Chelsea.

The worst was yet to come.

The pilot of the hot-air balloon which was to whisk Chelsea and Raoul away to their new life together had his doubts about prevailing winds. "Usually, they´ve calmed by this hour. The balloon will be hard to maneuver now. I wouldn´t advise…"

"You will _take us up_! This is _my_ day!" hissed Chelsea, delivering the pilot a look that could wither a cactus.

The pilot shook his head, but he and his crew proceeded to ready the balloon, and then he helped Raoul and Chelsea into it. As they lifted off slowly, Chelsea threw favors out to the assembled crowd from a white silk bag, oblivious to the fact that the balloon´s ascent was not perfectly vertical. In fact, the wind seemed to be taking it completely off course. The crowd could hear the roar of the flame as the pilot opened the blast valve to try to gain altitude, but the prevailing winds prevailed indeed, and the balloon skidded sideways, gracefully, straight toward the gothic spires of the church, closer now, and still closer…until the fabric of the balloon became caught on one of the spires. A ripping noise could be heard below, and the balloon deflated completely, its gondola tilting and hanging helplessly from the spire. After that, only Chelsea´s irate screams could be heard.

The congregated guests managed to contain their amusement – mostly because the overwhelming odor of sewage dampened any joy or mirth. It took two hours for a crew to rescue the balloon and its occupants, and by that time, the guests had dispersed.

For weeks afterwards, pedestrians in that area of the town would frequently find "Raoul and Chelsea" boxes, filled with Godiva chocolates – but often smeared with the residue which remained from the backhoe/sewer-main accident.

* * *

The balloon accident was featured on the television news that night. Christine, who was brushing her teeth, heard Erik´s soft chuckle and came to look at the report. She gawked in disbelief; Erik sat on the bed, shaking with laughter.

"I must give De Chagny credit where credit is due. I myself could not have planned things better! He shows remarkable promise," Erik chortled.

* * *

Erik and Christine´s first anniversary came, and they celebrated in quiet happiness. Christine was now in her fifth month of pregnancy, and she could feel the baby quickening within her.

The next evening, they attended the annual Charity Ball. Christine wore a blue gown, along with a silk velvet wrap, which very nearly concealed her pregnant figure. Erik glanced at her proudly as he helped her through the crowded ballroom. Soon, both Erik and Christine were surrounded by the inevitable klatches, each immersed in deep conversation.

Both Chelsea and Raoul were conspicuously present. It had been a month since their wedding, and Chelsea was in her element as she harvested congratulatory remarks from the few people attending the Ball who had not been at her nuptials. She was as tan and stylish as ever and practically glowed with contentment. Raoul, however, seemed solemn; with only a discreet glance in his direction, Christine could sense that he had matured a great deal.

Christine returned her full attention to her klatch. Mrs. Prewitt had been bemoaning the local economy and had now shifted the subject to world markets when Christine felt a paper being pressed into her hand. She could not tell who had delivered it to her, and she did not permit herself to react openly: Erik was only about twenty feet away, and she could feel his frequent glances on her.

Only after about ten minutes, when she felt herself unobserved, did she read the note, consisting of one word only, in Raoul´s handwriting: _Someday. _

Tucking away the note, Christine glanced involuntarily in Raoul´s direction and found him staring at her steadily. She shook her head and turned her back to him, schooling her features to conceal her turmoil.

Soon she was engrossed in conversation once more, discussing the futures market with Mrs. Prewitt, whose intelligence she enjoyed and admired. She spent a cheerful hour bantering with her, until Erik´s voice and hand at her elbow startled her: "May I have this dance, Mrs. Darrow?"

The band was playing _The Way You Look Tonight_, and Christine slipped into step with Erik. She thought about how things had changed for them in the course of a year.

"Erik, they were asking you about your opera again, weren´t they? Have you told them that my pregnancy has ruined things?" Christine asked, almost apologetically.

"Heavens, no! Only postponed, for the time being. It will take time to arrange a commission…then, once I´ve accepted the commission I donate it to charity, so that everyone´s happy. That by itself takes time; then, there is casting, there are rehearsals, and a million other details to work out. I´m not looking forward to it, to tell you the truth, Christine. Suddenly, so many other things are more important to me, now…"

He gazed at her, his eyes glowing with love and happiness. She found herself in his arms once more as he stopped dancing to kiss her. The other couples moved around them, slightly irritated. _They´ve been married a year now. Don´t they know how to behave yet?_, they thought to themselves.

* * *

The baby arrived at the end of June.

Christine held him carefully and examined every inch of him, from his wispy dark hair to the impossibly tiny toenails on his little feet. _Just like Erik_, she thought. It was certain: he already bore an uncanny resemblance to his father, though his little face was perfect. As the baby struggled to open his eyes, his mother noticed that they were light-colored and hoped that they would become the same golden color as Erik´s.

Erik hovered over Christine and the baby constantly. It was clear he found the child interesting and soon was handling him expertly, but Christine was worried by his lack of affection for the boy. Erik was not even interested in naming his son.

"What a sweet little ´It´ we have!" Christine cooed to the baby. "Isn´t ´It´ lovely, Erik?"

When that tactic failed to garner a response, Christine named the baby James Erik and arranged his baptism herself.

Something changed in Erik, however, as the weeks progressed into months and James´s eyes changed. The color of the baby´s eyes did not evolve into the amber his mother had so hoped for; instead, James´s eyes took on the same color and expression, exactly, as Christine´s.

Erik began to spend long hours simply examining the boy. Soon, he was holding him and singing lullabies while the baby made noises of delight. One day, Christine walked into the bedroom and found Erik bending over the bassinet and stroking James´s back, speaking to him softly. The baby was gazing into the distance in delight, gurgling and cooing. Sudden realization hit her.

"Erik Darrow, have you hypnotized our baby?"

"Shhh…" he said quietly. "He´s flying at the moment, and I want his landing to be a soft one."

Erik´s newfound love for his son did nothing to lessen his passion for his wife. Breastfeeding had left Christine thinner, and her face looked more angular, almost feline with her large eyes. Her husband found the changes in her fascinating, and followed her as relentlessly as ever.

He watched as she nursed the baby, his back against the headboard, Christine´s back against his chest, holding her. As he started to sing a soft lullaby, Christine protested.

"Erik, please! He´s only on his first breast now, and if you make him sleep, he´ll leave me asymmetrical!"

Erik chuckled softly, stroking her hair and kissing her neck while the baby finished.

After the baby had been put to bed, they made love quietly.

* * *

Meg had begun to visit Christine regularly now. She had done her best to put off Joe´s wedding plans and had succeeded, so far. Joe was exercising remarkable patience.

"They say that Raoul is managing Chelsea very well. He simply ignores her now," Meg remarked one day, as they walked through the garden with James.

"He´s gotten smart," said Christine, and, lifting James into her arms, went to examine the two apple trees Erik had planted. Both of them, even the smaller one, had borne fruit. She surveyed the expanse which had been cleared to leave room for many more apple trees. The late summer sunlight beamed golden upon it, and dragonflies flitted about, eliciting coos of delight from James.

"Do you ever miss Raoul?" asked Meg, quietly, while glancing up at the house, as though fearing that Erik could somehow hear her.

"No, never," answered Christine, immediately. "Would you?"

Meg laughed. "No," she answered, "I guess not!"

The three continued strolling together until it was time for Meg to go to work.


	21. Chapter 21

**Well, I´m back, just like a bad nickel! **

**A couple of people complained about the abrupt ending, and I have to admit that they were right. I was unsatisfied with this story and decided to put it out of its misery, and in so doing, I just made things worse. I apologize.**

**So, I hope that in extending the life of this story I´ll eventually be able to end it more satisfactorily.**

**I am going to get flamed again for sure -- this time, for including some pretty controversial issues in my story. Oh, well. Carpe diem!**

**I would like to thank those who have reviewed this story, yet again. That encouragement really makes a difference! **

I do not own POTO, or its characters.

* * *

_I really took it all too seriously._

That was what Christine thought many years later, in retrospect, when she considered the struggle she had had with her conscience over the use of artificial birth control.

She had breastfed James for a year before she finally weaned him, and she had not become pregnant during that time, since nature treated her kindly. Only after James was completely weaned did she go to Dr. Joan and reinitiate her prescription.

The inevitable conflict arose when she went to confession, however, and Father Joseph reiterated to her that artificial birth control was a mortal sin, a crime against nature and cause of alienation from God. Christine was duly cowed, and she searched for some way to reconcile her religious beliefs with some type of family planning.

That was when Christine decided to try the rhythm method, which called for abstinence from sex for several days out of every month. There was a problem with that, however.

Erik.

"Just a minute," Christine murmured one morning as she slipped out of Erik´s embrace and seized the digital thermometer from her nightstand. She measured her basal temperature quickly, then recorded it with a pencil. During the entire process she could feel Erik fuming beside her, and she felt the premonition that things between them were quickly coming to a head. She anxiously scanned her temperature chart, and realized with a sinking feeling that her temperature had, in fact, dropped. Without giving Erik warning, Christine bolted out of the bed and made a beeline for the bathroom.

"I think I´d better take a shower," she called over her shoulder, and added to herself, _It had better be a cold one._

She hated having to push Erik away. She hated the hurt look in his eyes, especially since what he wanted from her coincided exactly, perfectly, achingly, with what _she _wanted from _him._

_What does Father Joseph know about nature?_, Christine thought to herself as she picked James up out of his crib to take him to breakfast.

Since James´s arrival the household staff, already on warm terms with Christine, had become more like family to her. They absolutely doted on James – especially the cook, Mrs. Donovan. Christine had always thought the cook to be a rather cold, dour person, but her personality would change completely whenever she was with the baby. She took James from Christine now and put him into his high chair.

"Pa-pa," said James, looking past Christine and Mrs. Donovan to the doorway. Erik stood there, staring at his wife. Christine could feel the anger in his gaze and quickly moved to prepare his coffee. She had taken the effort to study Erik´s tastes carefully and to do what little things for him that she could, especially since James´s birth. She was always conscious of how much Erik needed her, and she tried her best to dedicate all the time and attention she could to him. Erik seemed to thrive on it, even as James seemed to bask in the glow of his parents´ happiness.

Erik greeted James affectionately and offered the boy his forefinger, which he accepted with an enthusiastic "Ta!"

"I think, my boy, you will soon have an entire mouthful of teeth," observed Erik, looking at him closely.

"Oh, yes," agreed Mrs. Donovan, proudly. "He´s just cutting his first molars. Such a good baby! Doesn´t fuss a bit, though it must be bothering him something awful, poor boy."

"I think he might be running a slight fever, but he seems okay," said Christine, as she handed Erik his coffee. He met her eyes with a resentful glare. James watched them both with the innocent, inquiring gaze of a toddler his age. Mrs. Donovan noticed the tension, and said, "I´ll just feed the little master, then."

Erik gripped Christine´s elbow and escorted her firmly to the downstairs office.

"We cannot continue this," he whispered, his hands gripping her shoulders, his eyes boring into hers.

Christine looked down at her shoes, and she noticed that there was something marring the perfect leather finish of one of them: a dried, brownish-purple dollop of last week´s strained plums. Seeing it gave her the strength she needed to meet her husband´s eyes again.

"Erik, I want us to be alone – alone with James, that is – just a little longer before we decide to have another child. Isn´t that what _you _want, too?" she asked.

"Of course it´s what I want, but why on earth do you have to take the Catholic methods so seriously? Why can´t you be a ´practical Catholic,´ like all the rest of them? You needn´t confess every last detail of what you do to Father Joseph, and even if you do, you certainly don´t need to take his reprimands so seriously. The Church should have given its approval to the birth-control pill back in 1960, anyhow!" Erik hissed.

"…But it didn´t," responded Christine, "and we´re Catholics, you and I, for some reason. We can´t just pick and choose which principles we embrace!"

"And thus life becomes one ordeal of self-flagellation after another!" said Erik, fairly bristling with indignation. "Have you ever stopped to think, Christine, of how _political _religion always is? How it short-changes every last soul who is not positioned comfortably in the hierarchy? That is how it has to be for the higher-ups to become more powerful. I tell you, people become more powerful only because they render other people _less _powerful, and while you submit to Father Joseph´s browbeating, you will only be his victim."

"Erik!" Christine said, shocked. "Why did you become a Catholic, if you never wanted to follow the rules?"

"I became a Catholic for _you_, Christine!" Erik spat, but he lowered his voice as he observed his wife´s shock, and he drew her into an embrace.

"I knew that you were a Catholic, and I felt I would be more acceptable to you if I were of the same faith," he said simply. "Can you blame me? But now, I think, the situation has gone too far. It is for you and me to decide what we will do with our bodies, not some priest. I need you, Christine," he said, just as there came a cautious knock at the door.

Nadir came in, ready for another workday and surprised at having found the door to the office closed.

Christine sighed with relief. The conflict was far from over, but at least it had been postponed. She went to collect James from the kitchen. She had started to work again, part-time, several months after James´s birth, and a nursery had been established for the baby in the Bomb Shelter. She would review memos and figures while James played in his playpen.

"How´s my grandson today?" asked Nadir jovially. He was very fond of James and, from the very beginning, it had become clear that he planned to make up for the baby´s lack of grandparents.

"Teething," answered Christine lightly, as she put James on the floor to let him practice walking in his fenced-off space. He toddled a few steps, then fell down on his rear, cooing delightedly to himself over his own progress. Erik watched from across the room, glowing with pride, then settled an unhappy stare on Christine. She turned away and tried to work, though she felt him observing her during the better part of the morning. _That man!_

Christine spent the afternoon with James in the garden, giving him a little sunshine and avoiding the house. She glanced up at the stone façade once, and thought she saw a flash of white at the window of the upstairs study: Erik´s mask. She knew, instinctively, that the storm was going to break, and very soon.

* * *

It happened after dinner.

Christine prepared herself for bed that evening quietly but with trepidation, lost in thought. Erik had once told her never to leave his bed, but she wondered – how serious would it be if she defied him in this? She knew that the effects would certainly be serious if she went to bed with her husband tonight. She knew exactly what would happen, inevitably – she could not hope to control the desire she felt for her husband, and he had made his intentions quite clear. She was startled out of her thoughts by Erik´s arms around her. He turned her, gently, to face him.

"Alone, at last," he purred, and her heart quickened. He kissed her deeply, his hand tangled in her hair, and she felt her treacherous body respond to him. She cursed the flimsiness of her nightgown, how she felt his heat and hardness against her as he held her, his fingers deceptively gentle as they explored her. She knew the strength in them.

Christine summoned what was left of her reason, and forced herself to relax in Erik´s arms. His lips were on her neck now, and she waited, feeling the roughness of his chin against her skin and the little nips of his teeth, trying to ignore the electrical impulses they aroused in her body. She stroked his hair, then felt him as he parted gradually from her to lead her to the bed, his hand as it slid down her arm, then his tenuous grasp on her fingertips, and she smiled at him….then she bolted.

She ran out the bedroom door with all the speed she could summon, intent on reaching the guest suite. She could hear nothing behind her in the dark, but she dared not look as she opened the door quickly and slammed it shut, locking it in one fluid motion. _Thank goodness._ She would sleep here tonight – Erik would simply have to understand.

His voice on the other side of the door made it clear that he was not prepared to understand.

"What have you done, Christine?" Erik asked, his voice deceptively calm.

Christine was terrified. She knew that tone, but he had never used it on _her_ before.

"Erik, I love you, but I have to sleep here tonight, don´t you understand? You know our situation," she said, hiding the fear from her voice.

"Open the door, Christine," he said, even more quietly. In spite of his calm tones, his voice carried through the barrier of the door perfectly, every consonant lethally clear.

Christine swallowed. "No," she said, as firmly as possible.

"I am not _asking _you to open the door Christine, I am _telling _you. Open the door, _now_."

"I can´t, Erik," Christine said, unable to hide the whimper from her voice.

"Very well."

There was a silence then, and Christine relaxed slightly. Something soft brushed against her ankles, and she stifled a scream, but it was nothing but Kee, a young tabby they had adopted from the shelter several months earlier. He now enjoyed the run of the house, and as he looked up at her, purring, she tittered in relief.

There was a huge crashing and splintering noise, suddenly, and the entire room seemed to shake. Christine ran to the end of the room opposite the door, and watched, horrified, as it came crashing down from its frame. Erik stood in the doorway, his eyes blazing.

The cat ran under the bed.

Christine stood, frozen, staring in disbelief at her husband. He was maskless, shirtless, and bleeding profusely from one shoulder – but oblivious to it. His chest was heaving with frustration; his eyes remained on her, piercing her. She knew she was lost -- she had never wanted him more in her life. In one last bid for sanity, she tried to concentrate on Erik´s injured shoulder.

"Erik, you´re bleeding," she said in hushed tones, as he stalked towards her.

"Am I?" he asked, never taking his eyes off her. She backed away from him until she was completely cornered. Erik smiled slowly, maliciously, as he approached her. He cradled her face in his hands, very gently.

"Did you think you could escape me, my love?" he whispered in her ear.

"I…I thought it might work temporarily," Christine answered, trembling.

"No," he said, and, picking her up abruptly, threw her on the guest bed. Their joining was immediate, heated, and nearly brutal. The nightgown lay in a torn heap on the floor as Erik sated himself, and Christine could feel and smell his blood as he moved within her. It stained her arms as she held him, and his blood was on her hands, the tops of her thighs, and her breasts. The sheets were completely stained with it.

Afterwards, he held her in his tender steel grip, whispering his love in her ear. The mixed aroma of his blood and his own musky, masculine scent wafted off the warmth of his skin. Christine looked carefully at the gash on Erik´s shoulder. It had stopped bleeding, but it would need cleaning and, perhaps, stitches.

"Erik, let me at least clean it," begged Christine.

Erik looked at his shoulder disinterestedly.

"Tomorrow," he said.

The cat emerged from under the bed and, glaring reproachfully at Erik and Christine, slinked out of the room.


	22. Chapter 22

**My deepest gratitude to those who have reviewed.**

I do not own POTO, or its characters.

* * *

Christine awakened late the next morning. Her body was throbbing, and she was still sticky with Erik´s dried blood. She expected to find Erik´s side of the bed empty, but he was propped up on his elbow, watching her with solemn eyes. He had showered, however, and since he remained shirtless, she could see that his shoulder had been cleaned and stitched.

"You´ve seen a doctor?" she asked, observing his injury closely. A mottled bruise surrounded the gash, but there was little swelling.

"I had Nadir stitch it for me. He´s an expert in such things, you know," said Erik.

He took Christine´s hand in his, and gently cupped her cheek with his other hand.

"Christine, I´m sorry," he whispered, contrition in his eyes.

"It´s okay, Erik," she said, quietly.

But it was not.

The seeds of resentment sown the night before had germinated, and Christine could not meet Erik´s eyes. She left him to shower and ready herself for the day.

As she approached the guest suite on her way downstairs, she saw Concha, one of the maids, shaking her broom at Kee. "_¡La madre que te parió…!_" she said as the cat cringed, wide-eyed, then escaped in alarm.

Christine certainly understood Concha´s anger. The guest suite had been rendered a disaster the night before, but she did not comprehend why the cat was now the object of the maid´s wrath.

"The cat made piss under the guest-room bed!" Concha explained. Christine felt her face grow hot and left quickly.

* * *

The days passed slowly, and Christine became ever more distant with Erik as she waited anxiously for her period to come. She went through the motions of affection – she kissed him as always, made his coffee as always, tried to chat with him as always. Yet something ineffable was missing now, and Erik felt it keenly.

He became nervous and desperate. He brought her more roses than ever, perfume, and even jewelry, though Christine was not especially fond of it. She always smiled, thanked him politely, and kissed him. If she told him "You shouldn´t have," she meant it. He offered to take her somewhere – anywhere she wanted, since perhaps what she needed was a vacation. She declined politely and told him she was perfectly happy where she was. Yet her unhappiness was plain for the entire household to see.

Their morning music lessons became prolonged attempts by Erik to extract emotion from Christine – something strong – love, hatred, _anything._ Her voice was technically perfect, though it had become emotionally barren.

The nights were the worst. Christine would kiss Erik, bid him goodnight, and turn her back to him. He grasped her and held her desperately in his arms. Christine did not resist, but there was nothing. Detached as she felt from him, Christine could feel Erik´s terror.

When her period did not come, Christine knew. She did not need to go to Dr. Joan to confirm what she suspected, but she did, nonetheless.

"Weren´t you taking what I prescribed you?" asked the doctor as she noted the result of the pregnancy test.

"I tried the rhythm method, thanks to a priest," said Christine quietly.

"Please take my advice, Christine," said Dr. Joan, rather maternally. "Never, _ever_, leave your birth control in the hands of a man."

"Darn straight," Christine replied listlessly.

The doctor looked at her, concerned.

"Are you going to be alright, dear?"

Christine offered her a smile that did not reach her eyes.

"Of course, Dr. Joan. Please don´t worry about me."

In the coming days, _Please don´t worry about me _was to become Christine´s mantra.

Erik was waiting for Christine when she came home. He had known, too, but had been waiting for his wife to confirm the news. He escorted her to their bedroom.

"What can I tell you, Erik? You knew this would happen," said Christine.

Erik pulled Christine into his lap and sat with her on the bed, holding her and stroking her hair. She seemed stiff and oblivious to his attentions but appeared to wake up when he started to hum quietly.

"You seem happy," she said, a trace of accusation in her voice.

"What would you have me say, Christine? I am happy, yes. I love my family, and now we have another child on the way. How could I not be happy? This is Heaven…"

"For one of us!" snapped Christine, trying to extricate herself from Erik´s grasp. To her irritation, he held her fast. She heaved a sigh and sat stiffly, waiting.

"I would do anything to make you happy, Christine. Anything. Please tell me…"

"There´s nothing," she snapped, and wrenching herself away from him, left the room.

* * *

The following days were spent in a miserable gray haze. Christine attended to her professional and motherly duties like an automaton. She spoke, smiled, scolded, laughed, and embraced at all the appropriate times, but she was simply absent. She started to take long naps, pleading exhaustion. One day she did not leave the bed.

"Christine," Erik said gently, tears in his voice.

"Don´t worry about me, Erik. I´m just tired," she said.

_Tired, tired, tired. Took care of papa, now he´s gone. Just gone. Took care of Raoul, but it was a waste – such a waste. Erik needs me. So much. Too much. Now James needs me. James…and someone else coming. Coming soon. Too soon._

_Where am _I_?_

She felt a constant ache and nagging sadness, yet she could not cry.

There was a knock at the door around noon, and she did not answer. Meg came breezing in anyway, and stood contemplating Christine.

Christine returned her gaze impassively. _So the public comes to gawk at the pilot whale which, having completely lost its navigational system, is beached, its failure exposed for all to see. _

"Did you pay admission?"

"Christine, what´s going on?" asked Meg. "You haven´t been to Greene Street for the last two weeks, and now I find you here, like this. What´s wrong?"

"Pre-partum depression," murmured Christine, rolling over to her side.

"Yeah, I heard you´re pregnant again," said Meg, "and what kills me is I didn´t get this tidbit of information from you! Since when have you locked _me _out? You can do that with the guys, but I won´t stand for it. And it´s killing your husband, by the way."

"How do you know that?" asked Christine.

"He called me himself and actually begged me to come here – not that I wasn´t thinking of doing it anyway. But I won´t lie to you. I´m here because he needs my help. You´re behaving like a prima donna!"

Christine managed a sarcastic laugh. "Did he tell you what happened?"

"Not really. But _you´re _going to tell me."

Christine was silent.

Meg sighed and decided to try another tactic.

"Christine, don´t you remember how we always were together, even in high school? You always unloaded on me and I always unloaded on you, and we both felt better. Well, I have news for you. I´m going through a crisis of my own right now, and could really use your help. How about you telling me about your crisis, then I´ll dump mine on you in return? It´ll be just like old times.

"I really need to talk with you, Christine. I´m serious. I waited for you on Sunday at Greene Street, and you never came, so I had no one to talk to, and it´s eating me up inside. You´ve always fretted about how you dump your problems on me, you know? Well, I´ve got news for you, girlfriend. It´s always been a two-way street with us – I _need _you and your problems, did you ever realize that? And now I´ve got a big problem, myself. So, spill your guts, _por favor, _so I can spill mine!"

Meg had gradually worked herself into tears as she spoke; she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand now.

Something stirred within Christine.

"Okay, Meg, I´ll tell it to you straight…" She sat up, and Meg sat down beside her on the bed.

"I´m pregnant and it´s Erik´s fault," she said.

Meg looked at her blankly. "Well, I hope it isn´t anyone else´s fault!"

"No… no, what I mean is, on a certain night I didn´t want to, and he did, so we ended up…"

"You mean he _forced _you? Shit, I´ll _castrate_ him!" erupted Meg.

Christine signaled with her hand for her to lower her voice.

"No, Meg, it wasn´t like that, either. I wanted him, too, you know, but I had removed myself from him because I wasn´t protected. One thing that really sets Erik off is if I put up barriers between us, you know. He doesn´t like it, and he doesn´t respect it. So he went a little crazy, and boom! We were together in the same space and what happened, happened. And now I´m pregnant.

"I resent him. I resent that he follows me everywhere, watches me all the time, and needs to control everything, while I´m totally out of control. I was able to take the stress of this when Erik and I were just a couple, you know. I got used to it, but now I´ve got James, too, so I´m spread pretty thin. And now this!"

The tears which until now had remained deep inside Christine finally began to well to the surface.

"You know how I love him, Meg. You know I need him. But he needs so much, it´s just hard for me…"

Meg put her arm around Christine´s shoulder and stroked her hair with her other hand.

"You know, Christine," she said, "Your problem could be that you´re too much of a goody two-shoes."

Christine delivered her a tearful glare.

"Look, honey, has it ever occurred to you how much control _you _have over _Erik_? Anybody who needs you the way he does is under your control – face it. If you had been a wicked lady you would have had him right under your thumb in a minute. Instead, you´ve let him have the reins! If you let him run you like this, you´re both going to be unhappy."

"Meg, you don´t know Erik! He doesn´t ask, he orders. He likes to run things."

"Nah, you just need to know what language to use. Try asking him for the space you want. Make him feel like it was his idea!"

Christine had her doubts about the utility of that idea, but she was surprised to find that speaking with Meg had helped her to feel better. Curiosity tugged at her.

"Meg, what problem of yours did you want to talk about?"

Meg´s face flushed immediately, and the tears started. "Joe," she said.

"Joe?" Christine´s eyes flicked immediately to Meg´s ring finger; the diamond engagement ring was still there. "What did he do?"

"He made passionate love to another woman."

There was a long silence.

"You mean, Joe LeBlanc?" asked Christine, incredulous. "_Your _Joe?"

Tears coursed down Meg´s face. "Yeah."

"Are you sure?"

"Is the Pope German? Yes, it was Joe LeBlanc, kissing another woman passionately outside his apartment, the filthy bayou rat. He didn´t see me, but I saw him – I sure did!" Meg was hoarse with grief by now, and obviously did not care who could hear her.

Christine´s mind raced, her own problems forgotten.

"I´ll _castrate_ him!" she said, finally.

Meg managed a hiccoughing giggle. "We´d better buy knives," she said.

"Or we could do something else. We could sabotage his work…"

"No, not that," snapped Meg, but she seemed to be considering something. "He _did_ just get a nice new Corolla…"

"Do we put sugar in the gas tank?" asked Christine.

"No, that won´t work unless you can pry the lid to it open somehow…"

"Well, then, we´re stuck with something milder. Back to the classics. What say we shoe-polish our opinion of Joe all over his nice, new car?" Christine asked.

"You know, it would make me feel a whole lot better," concurred Meg.

"Tonight, then?"

"Tonight."


	23. Chapter 23

**Humble thanks to all those who have reviewed. I do my best to answer signed reviews, but I´m unable to answer those who have so kindly submitted anonymous reviews. Please know that I am extremely grateful! **

**I do not own POTO, or its characters.**

* * *

Christine put James to bed that night just in time to hear Meg arrive to pick her up. She greeted Christine in the living room, jingling her keys. "Ready, Girlfriend?"

"Ready."

Meg had parked in the driveway, and both she and Christine were almost superstitiously quiet, even once inside the Honda, until they had exited the gate.

"I didn´t see your hubby at all. What did you tell him?" asked Meg.

"I told him a half-truth – that you´re taking me to your place for a bit of girl time. I told him we won´t be long," replied Christine.

"I´m surprised he let you loose," murmured Meg, as she made a left turn.

"Me, too," said Christine. She checked the rearview and side view mirrors quickly, trying not to move her head too much. Nothing.

As they turned onto the street leading to Meg´s apartment, however, Christine noticed a familiar pair of headlamps some distance behind them and sighed.

"What?" asked Meg.

"That would be Erik a few cars behind us – no, don´t move your head! I knew it. He´s followed us," said Christine.

"Geez, you´re not kidding about that guy. He doesn´t give you an inch of space, does he?"

"Well, Meg, that´s the way he is – he drives me nuts, but I love him."

"You´re both nuts, then. What is he going to do? Apprehend us when we get out of the car?"

"No, of course not. He´ll probably keep his distance but watch us go into your building, then monitor any movement in your living-room window. We can´t let on that we´ve seen him, you know."

"Right," said Meg, shaking her head.

Meg parked, and they both ascended to her apartment without looking to the side, apparently engaged in intense conversation. Once Meg had ushered Christine in and closed the door, she leaned against it and heaved a sigh of relief.

"So, did you get the shoe polish?" asked Christine.

Meg brightened. "Not only shoe polish. Look!" She said, and indicated three plastic Coke bottles full of some liquid substance – one purple, one orange, and one yellow.

"Liquid Mardi Gras for Joe LeBlanc! I mixed eggs with food dye, and it´s ready to pour! It should give Joe a world of trouble once it dries," Meg explained.

"Heavens!" exclaimed Christine, looking at it queasily.

"And white shoe polish! His Corolla is dark blue, you know," said Meg.

"That´s great! But how are we going to get to his place if Erik is out there monitoring your car?"

Meg offered Christine a puckish smile. "We´re in luck, honey! I wasn´t planning to use the Honda to get there. He won´t see us leave at all. Our chariot awaits us out back!" And so saying, she offered Christine a motorcycle helmet.

* * *

Meg´s "chariot" turned out to be a black Harley-Davidson Sportster.

"It´s about four years old," Meg explained. "Dave loaned it to me for tonight. He was all too happy to let me use it when I told him what Joe did me. Geez, Joe was so smooth, he was even pressuring me to name a wedding date! What an act!"

Meg was flushing in her effort to fight back tears, so Christine quickly searched her mind for something – anything – to distract her with.

"You and Dave are still friends? Hey, wasn´t he the guy who taught you how to ride?"

"The very same. Yeah, we´re still friends. We really broke up because of me, you know. He´s a really nice guy, even if he´s a little on the wild side, you know? But I just kinda outgrew him…" she mused. "Do you suppose Dave coulda been…?"

"No," answered Christine, quickly. "You would have been a disaster together, trust me!" She remembered Dave – and his leather, tattoos, and penchant for fast girls with long legs. "So, you can still ride a Harley?"

"Sure I can!" said Meg, slightly miffed. "I still have my motorcycle license, you know!"

"Oh."

"Besides – and, trust me, honey – this is really for you. You need this!"

With that, they got on the Harley. Meg started it up, and its rumble filled the air. As the vibrations shook Christine, she grasped Meg´s waist with a death grip. She felt warm under the helmet, and the bottles and shoe polish in her backpack weighed her shoulders down. Suddenly, Meg started to roll, but she gave the bike too much throttle, and she very nearly popped a wheelie. Christine held on for dear life; Meg shifted into second, and they were off.

Adrenaline raced through Christine as she held on to Meg, and once the initial shock had worn off, she enjoyed the ride. It was by no means smooth. For all her bravado, Meg had not ridden a motorcycle for years and was clearly out of practice. But as they approached the suburban area where Joe´s apartment was, Christine could taste the beginnings of the absolute liberty one feels astride a bike. The trip seemed much too short, and she already was looking forward to the trip back.

Soon, they arrived at an apartment complex with a faux-stone façade and a fountain and some landscaping up front. The parking lot was anemically lit, with halogen lights dimly illuminating a scattered collection of expensive-looking cars. Meg scowled as she slowed the Harley, searching the parking lot for her objective. She and Christine idled through the lot until they noticed Joe´s Corolla at the far end, away from the other cars. It was situated in the very darkest corner of the entire car park.

"I can´t believe our luck," murmured Meg. "Joe doesn´t usually park this far away. The car´s closer to the clubhouse than to his own apartment. Well, mine is not to question why!"

They dismounted carefully, took off their helmets, and regarded the object of their intended mayhem with delight. Its surface gleamed, pristine and inviting. Christine removed some shoe polish from the backpack.

"Shall we start with this?" asked Christine, grinning.

"By all means!"

Meg quickly painted a message across the windshield in sweeping white strokes: "GRAVY-SUCKING PIG!" it proclaimed. Christine started forward to add something of her own, but Meg stopped her.

"Wait!" She said. "I want to express myself with eggs now!" She reached into the backpack, intent on finding the proper bottle.

"What the Hell is going on here?"

Both Meg and Christine froze. It was Joe´s voice, and it was right behind them.

They turned slowly to contemplate him; he stood with his arms crossed, staring at them in the half-light. Meg squinted, trying to see him better.

"Joe?" she said, tentatively.

Another figure came striding out from behind the hedge which lined the end of the parking lot. As it approached them, passing under the light of one of the halogen lamps, Christine´s heart nearly stopped. It was definitely Joe. She turned her eyes to the man in front of her, confused.

"Meg?" said Joe, as he approached the group. Meg stood, her jaw slack with amazement, looking from Joe to his doppelganger. There was a moment of silence before Joe finally spoke. "I think we´d better go to where there´s more light."

They all strolled back toward the halogen light, and Christine witnessed a revelation: the man with Joe was so similar to him at first glance that he was easily mistaken for him. His chin was slightly different, as was his brow-line. There were several other minor differences, but his build, manner of moving, voice, and hair were all the same as Joe´s. Joe proceeded to clarify what Christine already suspected.

"Meg…and Christine…I´d like you to meet my brother, Jason. He and his girlfriend have been camping out at my apartment for the past five days or so. Jason? I´d like you to meet the love of my life and her best friend."

"Um, pleased to meet you?" said Jason, arching a brow and holding out his hand. "You´re quite the artist, aren´t you?"

Meg, who had been stiff with shock, suddenly doubled over.

"Oh, my God!" she shouted, her hands covering her face. She dropped to her knees, and her right hand slapped the ground to punctuate each word as she continued to shout, "OH…MY…GOD!!"

Christine noted that Joe seemed only mildly shocked by this.

"Let´s have a look at your car, Joe," said Jason. "Your girlfriend has been busy."

Joe´s eyes traveled to his Corolla, and his mouth dropped open. He addressed Meg.

"You did that to my car?"

Meg still sat on her knees, her face covered by her hands. She nodded once, silently.

Joe continued to stare at his car. "Gravy-sucking pig?" he said. "That really hurts, Meg. Really hurts. May I ask why you suddenly hate me so much?"

Jason walked discreetly away, aware that he had no right to listen to the conversation which was about to take place. Christine was about to walk away for the same reason, but Meg bolted up to her feet suddenly and said, "Wait, Christine…._You_ tell him."

Christine knew what Meg wanted, and she sighed and started.

"Well, Joe, it seems that a few days ago – was it on Monday?" – here Meg nodded her assent – "Meg dropped by to see you in the evening. Somewhere out here, where the light´s not so good, she saw your brother locked in a passionate embrace with his girlfriend. You have to understand, Joe, that she thought he was _you._ You two look so similar…"

"He was wearing your jacket," inserted Meg, her eyes wet with tears. Christine glanced over at her, assessing her. Meg´s face was peaceful now, and her tears were tears of both happiness and contrition.

"Well," said Joe, scratching the back of his neck absently, "That would´ve been the night they arrived. They surprised me, you know – I didn´t know they were coming. They had been arguing in the car for two hours before they came to my apartment. What you saw must´ve been them making up – they don´t have much privacy at my place, you know. I _did_ loan Jason my jacket, which he got incredibly dirty, by the way."

"Oh, Joe," said Meg, and she rushed toward him to hug him. Joe deflected her, however, and his anger was evident.

"You didn´t show up to work for four days and it was over _this_? You talked with your friend about what you saw before you even thought about talking to me? Look, Meg, you haven´t been taking my calls, and I´ve been worried sick. I went to your apartment and banged on your door until your neighbors called the cops. At least _they _were willing to tell me that they´d seen you and you were alright. We´re supposed to be engaged, we´re supposed to get married, but I´m just the fool you´ve been putting off for two years!"

Joe stopped, suddenly, as if experiencing some revelation. "_Two years_! Two years begging you to set a wedding date – two years spent waiting to be with you, and now this is how you treat me?" he spat, gesturing at his car.

Meg looked nervous and alarmed. She had never seen Joe this way. "Joe, honey," she started, placing a tentative hand on his arm. Joe shook it off.

"I think I´ve had more than enough," he said quietly.

Meg was horrified. "Joe, you´re not saying what I think you´re saying. You can´t…."

"I think it´s time we called it quits. I´m tired of chasing someone who doesn´t want me and doesn´t even trust me!" He ran a quick hand through his hair, closed his eyes and sighed.

"Joe, I´m so sorry, really I am, I didn´t mean it. Can´t you see it was a _mistake_? If you´d seen what I´d seen…Oh, Joe, I was just jealous. You know how I love you. I would do anything for you, you know," Meg said. The tears were beginning to flow again.

"Is that so?" snarled Joe. "I suppose you´d promise me anything, right?"

"Actually, I would. Anything, honey."

"Maybe there´s hope, if you could just promise me one thing," Joe said contemplatively, his eyes distant.

"Anything!" Meg insisted.

"Marry me tonight."

"Of course! Wait…What?" said Meg.

"Oh, thank you, Meg!" said Joe, enfolding her in an enthusiastic bear hug. Christine noticed that, quite suddenly, his entire demeanor had changed. He fairly glowed. "I´ll call Jason now. He has the rings – he´ll be our best man, you know. The judge is waiting for us at the clubhouse, and you´ll have to sign one or two documents. Your mom arrived about an hour ago. I suppose Christine will agree to be your matron of honor?"

Christine nodded, stunned. Meg stood frozen, a classic deer-caught-in-the-headlights look gracing her features.

Joe started to pull Meg away. "Excuse us for a moment," said Joe to Christine, apologetically.

"Uh-huh," said Christine as she watched Joe drag Meg toward the clubhouse. Meg offered no resistance whatsoever, and Christine gathered that she was in a state of shock.

Left alone in the quiet, she felt a prickling at the edge of her consciousness. She turned toward where the Harley was parked. Erik, who had bent to examine it, now turned his gaze to Christine once more, his eyes like flames.


	24. Chapter 24

**Many thanks to those who have reviewed. That feedback really helps!**

**I do not own POTO, or its characters.**

* * *

Christine felt the fire of anger rush to her cheeks as she stared at Erik. He stared back, and gestured gracefully toward the Harley. No words were necessary. _How dare you defy me?_, she heard within the jumble of her thoughts, as clearly as if he had spoken. She turned away from him, but still his reproach continued. _How dare you risk life, limb, and my unborn child? You are… _Christine started to walk farther away from Erik and toward the clubhouse, taking long, resolute strides.

"You are my wife," he hissed, grasping her arm and pulling just enough so that she pivoted around, slamming into his chest.

Christine met his eyes, defiant. "A wife, not a prisoner!" she choked out through her anger.

Erik loosened his grip on her slightly, and she noted with satisfaction that her retort had hit home. Or had it? There was a sudden peace in his eyes, and she realized that he had been craving any type of emotion from her for days. The drought was over, and he was happy to be the recipient of her wrath. He shifted to a defensive stance, nonetheless.

"Everything I have done for you has been for your good. How can you ignore that? I expect little in return. The least you can do is to tell me the entire truth concerning your whereabouts and plans -- not only for this evening but any evening you plan to spend outside my company!"

"What difference does it make, when you follow me, anyway?" replied Christine, exasperated. "And, by the way, do you think your eavesdropping on my intimate conversations is somehow good for me? It sure hasn´t been good for Meg. Now look what´s happened!"

"I beg to differ. Mr. LeBlanc will be exceptionally beneficial to Miss Geary as a husband. He has been an extremely kind and patient suitor," noted Erik.

Christine could not argue that point, but nonetheless continued. "Meg isn´t ready for this, Erik, not right now! She needs more time. She wasn´t even ready to set a date!"

"Miss Geary would never have been ´ready,´ nor would she ever have set a date for her nuptials. I suggest, however, that you speak with her now. If she does not wish to wed Mr. LeBlanc tonight, she will not be required to do so."

Christine entered the clubhouse just in time to see Meg sign the license.

"That would be _M-e-g-a-n_ or _M-e-g-h-a-n_ Geary?" asked an officious man in a suit as he filled out a document.

"_Margaret!_ Her name is Margaret!" snapped Mrs. Geary as she looked over the man´s shoulder to review the information.

Christine looked around the room. There were folding chairs and a podium set up for an informal ceremony; a small table at the far side of the room held a small wedding cake and a bowl of punch. There were even flowers – white roses and chrysanthemums, mostly -- decorating the room. Joe and his friends had been busy.

She approached Meg, relieved to find Joe happily speaking with some friends at the other side of the room.

"Meg, could I talk with you just a minute?" asked Christine in a half-whisper. Meg nodded, and Christine pulled her into an isolated corner, noting how passive she seemed. In fact, Meg was shaking, and her eyes were wide.

"Meg, you don´t have to do this. Joe will understand, I´m sure, if you can´t go through with this tonight. I´ve spoken with Erik, and he gave me his word – if you want to get off the hook, you´re free as a bird."

Meg seemed to calm a little, and there was a silence while she reflected briefly.

"I want to do this, Christine," she said, finally, "Really, I do. I´ve wanted to marry Joe for two years now, but there´s something I´ve never told you. I´m just scared to death of the whole idea of a wedding! Always have been. I don´t know why! I guess I always just assumed I´d always be free – but then I fell in love with Joe, and he changed everything.

"I need your help, Christine. It doesn´t matter if I try to marry Joe now or in twenty years – I can´t say ´I do´ without fainting! And I want to! What can I do, Christine? I´ll embarrass myself, and I´ll embarrass Joe!"

Christine noticed that Meg´s teeth were chattering, and she was rubbing her arms, even though the room was quite warm. She took Meg´s hand in hers: ice cold.

"Come with me, Meg," said Christine, sighing, and escorted her outside. Something in the darkness seemed to shift, and Erik faded into view. Meg stifled a scream.

"You were right – she wants this," Christine told Erik, grudgingly. "But look at her! She needs calming down or she won´t be capable of getting through the vows."

"Very well," concurred Erik, and he started to soothe Meg in a low, melodious voice. Christine turned on her heel and went inside once more. A moment later she felt Erik sit next to her and, taking her hand, he nodded his success. She swept the room with her gaze, searching for Meg.

Meg was an entirely different person now. She went from one guest to another, hugging people and chatting warmly. She laughed at herself in self-deprecation – _Imagine getting married in jeans! But that´s me!_ Meg exuded glassy-eyed poise and happiness. Christine noticed that Mrs. Geary was eyeing her daughter with suspicion, and even looked from Meg to the punch bowl briefly – but no one had tried the punch yet. Joe, too, seemed surprised, but happy, with the sudden change in Meg´s demeanor. When the couple finally stood before the officiating judge to exchange vows, flanked by Christine and Jason, Meg answered "Oh, absolutely!" when she should have said "I do" and grinned incessantly.

"Are you sure you haven´t overdone it a bit?" Christine whispered to Erik immediately after the ceremony.

He furrowed his brow. "Perhaps," he muttered. Otherwise, Erik seemed quite pleased by the nuptials. The satisfaction he so obviously felt goaded Christine. _The wedding´s an ambush, the bride´s hypnotized, so of course he´s happy! _

The congratulations, jokes, and toasts were brief, given the lateness of the hour. As the wedding party prepared to throw rice at the bride and groom, Christine noticed Joe´s Corolla. It still bore the "GRAVY-SUCKING PIG!" which Meg had written on its front, but now someone had added "JUST MARRIED!" to the back of the car, and tin cans had been attached using twine.

"Oh, no!" Christine exclaimed. "I´d better wash off the front!"

Erik stopped her, however. "No. They will have a story to tell their grandchildren," he said, smiling slightly.

As Meg and Joe headed out to the car, rice pelting them, Erik approached Meg and clapped his hands, once. The effect was immediate.

Meg stopped in her tracks, her eyes wide. "Oh, my God!" she said. "Oh…. my…. God! I did it! I finally did it!"

* * *

Soon everyone had dispersed, and Christine and Erik were left alone. For the first time ever, Christine felt awkward near her husband, as if estranged from him in some fundamental way. He watched her, as ever, and surprised her when he merely said, "We shall speak later."

The Harley was still where Meg had left it, and to Christine´s surprise, Erik approached and mounted it. He gestured to her. "Get on."

"You were angry with me for riding the Harley before, and now you _want _me to?" inquired Christine irritably. Against her will, she noticed how incongruous yet inviting Erik´s dark elegance seemed astride the Harley.

Erik´s voice was like silk as he proffered her a helmet. "You´ll be with me," he said simply.

Christine held her helmet indecisively, watching Erik. He checked the helmet he was going to wear; it had been a very loose fit on Meg, but it would be rather tight on him. He removed his mask, and Christine felt something within her flutter. She wondered whether Erik knew the effect he had on her unmasked. Seeing the twisted, pale ugliness of the unmasked half of his face summoned her most tender feelings, and before she thought about it, she had stepped over to Erik and kissed the mangled side of his face.

He was rapid: she was in his arms in an instant as he kissed her deeply. When he finally permitted her to back away from him a little, she noticed scabbed-over injuries on his flesh – four straight, parallel lines raked into his skin.

"What happened here?" asked Christine, worried.

Erik did not answer, nor did he meet her eyes. He simply put the helmet on. "Get on," he coaxed.

Donning her helmet, Christine got onto the Harley behind Erik. She put her arms around his torso almost shyly, feeling the flat muscles on the planes of his back, warm beneath his coat. He pulled on her arms gently but firmly, urging her to tighten her grip. "Don´t let go," he admonished, and they started off.

Erik handled the motorcycle so smoothly that Christine briefly wondered whether he had had Dave´s Harley exchanged for another – but, no, it was the same one. Instead of turning toward home, as Christine had expected him to do, Erik went farther out into suburbia, gathering speed. Soon they were out in the country, flying past open fields.

Late winter. Stubble dotted cornfields, the trees were still bare, and there was a chill in the air yet, but Christine could feel the promise of life on its way, and she knew, though she could not tell how, that Erik felt it, too. A quarter-moon shone overhead and light clouds scudded past it as Erik and Christine sped on, dry leaves flying in their wake. So far away from the city, the stars shone brightly. Christine looked up and divined Orion, but she felt too lazy to search for other constellations.

When had she ever felt so free as she did now, hurtling through the unknown with Erik, clinging to him so closely that they seemed one? _We are one, _was his silent answer to her contemplations. He turned his head towards her, ever so slightly, as if to assuage any doubts she might have had.

Soon, she mused, it would be their third anniversary. _Three years_. _We married in late winter, the ugliest, most beautiful time of the year. What has been wrong with me lately? Why have I been so unhappy? _Suddenly, the resentment she felt toward Erik seemed so petty, so very trivial, compared with the beauty of their lives together.

As Erik turned the Harley back towards their home, Christine felt only the slightest twinge of doubt, the merest sense of having been manipulated, immersed as she was in her happiness: _This is how Erik planned for me to feel._


	25. Chapter 25

**Many thanks to all those who have been kind enough to review!**

**I do not own POTO, or its characters.**

* * *

Erik ran his fingers gently through Christine´s hair after their lovemaking; his weight pressed down on her, but she enjoyed the continued intimacy of the contact, and he knew it.

"Where have you been, Christine?" he murmured, rolling onto his back with her so that she now rested atop him.

"Been?" asked Christine, sleepily.

"You left me, in your way, you know. You did not leave me in a physical sense, but you left me in spirit. Why?"

Christine awakened somewhat. "Didn´t you overhear my little talk with Meg?" she asked.

"Only the end of it. You seem to be under the impression that I intended to eavesdrop on your entire conversation."

"But you did eavesdrop!" said Christine.

Erik sighed.

"When I brought Miss Geary upstairs to visit you," he said, "I waited for her outside the bedroom door, hoping that she would report to me afterwards. I could discern only the sound of two people conversing, until she raised her voice – she was clearly distressed. I listened to the rest of the conversation – I simply moved close enough to the door to do so.

"You are aware that June Geary is a very good friend, and her daughter´s welfare has always been a concern of mine. I naturally telephoned Mr. LeBlanc as soon as I overheard Miss Geary´s suspicions regarding his behavior. I felt, from what little I had observed of Mr. LeBlanc´s character, that he was incapable of such a betrayal – still, I needed to verify my conclusions, and I did so. I took the liberty of informing him of what you planned to do to his new car. He laughed when I told him, Christine, and there was no trace of anger or spite in his reaction. I decided then and there that he is the perfect husband for your friend. She will do as she pleases with him, whenever she pleases, and however she pleases, and he will _enjoy it_! Thus, I helped him to formulate a plan designed to capture the unwary Miss Geary and bring her to the altar at last."

Christine rolled to her side, unable to suppress a smile. The entire evening she had regarded Meg as the hapless victim of an ambush. Erik´s explanation cast things in an entirely different light.

"I am happy for them," Christine said. She had hoped that Joe and Meg would marry someday.

"You still have not explained why you kept yourself from me," said Erik, taking Christine off guard with the sudden shift of subject.

"Kept myself from you," repeated Christine slowly, gathering her thoughts. Erik waited, vigilant, for her answer, and his fear was palpable to her. _How can a man be so powerful and vulnerable, both at the same time? _

She kept her answer soft and diplomatic, frightened of hurting him. It would be the truth, however, or he would sense the lie immediately.

"I´ve been exhausted lately, Erik," she said. "We have James, and now another baby is on the way, and I´ve been worried about how I can attend to the children and work and still have enough time and energy to dedicate to…to _your_ needs."

He looked relieved. "So it´s nothing I´ve done?" he asked, watching her carefully.

"You mean, besides getting me pregnant?" she asked, careful to smile as she spoke. "I´ve been blue, that´s all. I wonder how I´m going to _do_ all this…?"

"You have been working too much," he muttered, reflecting. "I think I have been asking too much of you. Perhaps you should work fewer hours downstairs, and we should ask Mrs. Donovan to help with James – a promotion, of sorts, to professional grandmother…"

"She might not mind," conceded Christine. "She seems to prefer James to cooking. And James adores her. We´ll need another cook, though. I wonder how she´ll take to being usurped in the kitchen?"

"She won´t mind if I offer her an attractive enough contract. She was all too happy to sit with James tonight while we were otherwise engaged."

_Well, that solves at least part of the problem._

"Erik," asked Christine quietly, "What happened to this side of your face?" She indicated the injuries on the flesh his mask normally covered – four long, scabbed lines raking its surface.

He looked down. "You must understand that I blamed myself," he said. "I blamed myself when you cut me off as you did."

Tears filled Christine´s eyes as she traced his injuries with a gentle fingertip.

"Erik, please, don´t do things like this! We can´t always be perfect together, and I can´t have you falling apart at the same time I do! Think of James!"

"You fill my mind, Christine. I cannot help it, and I cannot change."

…_and another part of my problem has no solution. We´re at an impasse._

* * *

Sunday afternoon found both Christine and Meg at the Greene Street Soup Kitchen.

"Hey, Meg! How´s the honeymoon?" Christine asked, half-surprised to see that her friend had shown up.

"Just…glorious!" said Meg, with theatrical dreaminess. "Joe is incredible. He cooks for me, he´s cleaned the oven, he´s already changed the oil in my Honda… and he makes perfect coffee…"

"Meg! How could you exploit the poor man so? Can´t you see he´s about half crazy?" scolded Christine.

"The other half isn´t too bad, either!" replied Meg, doing her best Mae West. She became herself again at once, though, as frank and open as ever. "Seriously, Christine, we´re very happy. You know, we´re even talking about buying a house in your neighborhood! The Vasco is doing really well, and I´ve been saving money – but, mostly, my new hubby turns out to be pretty well-heeled himself. I didn´t know how much money he has!"

Christine´s eyes widened and she paused over the potato she was peeling. "It would be GREAT if you could live close to us!" she said, ecstatic.

Meg smiled at her. "_I_ think so. By the way, thanks again for the honeymoon package. We´ll be flying out to Fiji just as soon as we make sure the Vasco can work for a couple of weeks without us."

Christine nodded. Erik had arranged the honeymoon package for Joe and Meg personally, with some input from his wife, as a wedding gift.

"Oh, I just remembered, too," added Meg, "Dave says thanks for the job on his Harley. He´s just thrilled!"

"Job on his Harley?" asked Christine, confused.

"Yeah! You didn´t know? Your hubby´s minions returned the Sportster, all cleaned and polished, complete with an engine conversion. It´s a lot more powerful now. The only reason Dave let me borrow that bike was that it was the tamest of his three motorbikes. Now I´m not sure he´ll ever let me borrow it again!"

Later in their shift, Meg and Christine stood in front of the soup kitchen, prepared to run an errand to a grocer´s.

Christine was thrilled. "I haven´t been inside a supermarket in three years!" she said.

Meg rolled her eyes. "To think of all the fun you´re missing!" she said, looking absently off to the side.

Christine noticed that Meg kept glancing at the window of a café across the street. She strained to look through the window, and she felt a sudden shock as she saw a man looking back at her through the glass. It was Raoul. As she froze, he came even closer to the window to assure himself that she had seen him. Christine realized that he was not in breach of his contract with Erik – he was far away enough from her so that he kept an adequate distance. She shook her head instinctively as she looked at Raoul and tried not to notice the expression on his face.

"I´m sorry," said Meg, gently, watching her. "I know how you feel, but there´s no helping the situation. He´s been there every week. I tried to chase him off just last weekend. You hadn´t shown up, you know, and I lied and told him you weren´t ever coming back, but he hasn´t given up, so far."

"Meg, it´s been _three years_," Christine half-whispered, tears of frustration welling in her eyes. _Not this!_

"I think we´d better get going," muttered Meg. From a distance, Jake trailed them.

* * *

The months passed, and Christine´s pregnancy advanced accordingly. She passed as much time with James as she could, knowing how soon things were about to change for them. Erik watched her, fascinated. He was spending much less time attending to his businesses now, and he had delegated much of his work to Nadir – who, in turn, selected choice Meade Street employees to whom to delegate much of _his_ work.

Erik was much more relaxed now that Christine was pregnant for the second time than he had been during her pregnancy with James. Fatherhood suited him, much to Christine´s surprise – and to his own, evidently. He never tired of dandling James and took enormous pride in seeing how he grew. Christine stifled a smile every time Erik would speak to James, because he refused to simplify his vocabulary for his son.

She observed them once, for example, when James threw a toy train across the room. It crashed to the floor away from his play space, and she smiled as she saw James look at his father silently, measuring his reaction. Erik folded his arms.

"Young man," he declared, "You will march over there, collect your toy and put it back where it belongs immediately. You are not a savage!"

James looked up at his father, a finger in his mouth, and smiled slowly. He toddled over to pick up the train, but instead of putting it back in its place, he presented it to Erik.

"Choo!" he said, earnestly. Erik accepted the train, doing his utmost to contain his amusement.

Christine had to admit that James was a very good baby. He was extremely easygoing and even-tempered, and he reminded her very much of her own father. _If only he could be here!_

Christine´s pregnancy was an easy one, and she kept up her volunteer work at Greene Street. Raoul continued to haunt the café across the street from the soup kitchen, but she learned to ignore him and she gradually relaxed, knowing he would never dare approach her. She was certain that he would become tired and give up eventually. She made sure that her pregnancy was obvious to all onlookers, making it a point to go swaybacked whenever she could be seen in front of the kitchen. _If that doesn´t chase him off, nothing will! _

She spent her nights in Erik´s arms, as ever. His words of love and happiness were the last sounds she heard before drifting off to sleep at night. Through the shroud of unconsciousness, she could often feel her husband´s hands as they eagerly searched for what he seemed shy to explore when she was awake: the baby´s kicking. This child moved more restlessly within his mother than James had, and Christine would often awaken after a particularly enthusiastic kick or punch.

The baby arrived in late October, just as the leaves were beginning to fall, and he was christened Miles William.


	26. Chapter 26

**Blessings and graces on those kind souls who have reviewed!**

**I do not own POTO, or its characters.**

* * *

Paul Rooney considered himself an excellent observer of people, and he was in his element as he stood, uncomfortable in his rented tuxedo, watching the _crème de la crème_ of society enjoying the annual Charity Ball. His eyes swept the room, picking out faces he recognized and lingering on the more attractive women.

He saw that Raoul and Chelsea de Chagny were chatting with Tracy Stewart near one of the punch bowls. Raoul was a partner now at McDermott and Goldberg, the city´s most prestigious accounting firm. His rise to the upper echelon had been rapid – _too rapid_, thought Paul, with a touch of bitterness. It was amazing what wealth and family connections could do. He searched his memory: There had been another De Chagny brother – Philip, was it? – who had died suddenly under strange circumstances. Obviously, wealth could not protect you from everything in life – particularly not from death.

Paul´s gaze fell on a tall, attractive redhead. _Now there´s a bit of excitement, _he thought to himself. But her husband was beside her, and it was evident from their laughter that they were having a splendid time together – no trouble with that marriage. He searched his memory, trying to remember the redhead´s first name. Was it Maggie -- or Mary -- LeBlanc? Well, it little mattered. Everyone knew the LeBlancs, now that they were prominent restaurateurs. They owned two of the best, most fashionable restaurants in the city – the Vasco and the creole-tendency Lagniappe.

The Prewitts and Burkes were in evidence on the dance floor, as were the senior De Chagnys…and as Paul continued to scan the floor, there was a ripple of excitement near the entrance and a sudden movement of people in that direction. He knew why in an instant as he looked, easily seeing the top of Erik Darrow´s head moving through the crowd which was now pressing around him and his wife. _So, the emperor has arrived._

Erik Darrow had made a ritual of appearing at the Charity Ball, without fail, every year. He was never spotted in public at any other time, although there were rumors that he and his wife enjoyed a private box at the City Opera – not surprising, given the strong connection he had to that institution. Composer, empresario, investor – he wore many hats, and he was the object of envy, scorn, and grudging admiration. There had been rumors of violence connected to him in the past, but they had died down after his marriage. His enthusiasm for business had abated somewhat, too, and it was said he had become quite the family man – very dedicated to his wife and young sons. As the crowd milled about, Paul caught a glimpse of the Darrows, and he felt a stab of envy. Erik Darrow was tall, dark and regal, a fine figure of a man in spite of the mask he wore. In fact, the mask seemed to add to the man´s elegance. Some said the mask was nothing more than a touch of theater, and that Darrow´s face was completely symmetrical and handsome. There were whispers, however, that indicated otherwise – that it covered a terrible deformity.

Paul glanced at the woman on Darrow´s arm, then stared. _Definitely hot. _She was sheathed in a gold-colored evening gown which accentuated her lithe figure. Long, thick waves of dark hair had been left loose and reached the middle of her back. Her eyes were large, expressive, and impossibly blue. She moved away from her husband, gradually, and gravitated toward the LeBlancs, who greeted her warmly. Paul noticed, through an accidental glance, that Raoul de Chagny was watching Darrow´s wife with an expression which could only be described as hunger. _There´s definitely something there. How´s about we check it out?_

He made a beeline for Raoul.

"Raoul de Chagny? Paul Rooney. We met at the opera benefit, remember?" he greeted, extending his hand.

Raoul shook his hand distractedly, then finally focused his attention on Paul. Paul grinned.

"She´s quite an eyeful, isn´t she?" he ventured.

"Who?"

"Darrow´s wife. What´s her name? Crystal?"

"Christine!" spat Raoul, now staring at Paul with frank dislike.

"Oh, well, okay -- Christine, then. Look, no one can blame you for looking at her like that – she´s really hot. I wouldn´t mind giving her a try myself, if you know what I mean…"

"Is that so?" said Raoul, looking at him thoughtfully. Suddenly, his demeanor changed, and he became friendly.

"Look, Paul, I´ve known Christine for a good many years. I know her very well, and between you and me, I don´t think it would be fair for you to approach her at such a vulnerable moment…"

"Vulnerable?" said Paul, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

"Well…yes. You´ve surely heard what people are saying. They say she´s desperate right now because Darrow doesn´t pay any attention to her anymore, if you know what I mean…"

"Well, isn´t that sad! But they seemed to be kind of close just now…"

"That´s when they´re in public – of course they´d behave that way! They want to kill all those rumors, you know."

"Of course," Paul said, feigning sympathy. "Poor girl. But I have to go and introduce myself to her. She´ll be singing the lead in her husband´s upcoming opera, you know, so we´ll be seeing each other at the Cit from time to time."

Raoul stiffened. "She´ll be singing at the Cit?" he asked Paul, his gaze suddenly intense.

"Well, yes – she´s a lyric soprano or something like that. Look, I´m just a numbers-cruncher and don´t get into the artsy-fartsy side of the business, but I hear she´s going to be Persephone to Robert Brenner´s Hades."

"Persephone," mused Raoul, "very appropriate."

Paul noted that Raoul seemed distracted again and excused himself, searching the room for Mrs. Darrow…for Christine. So, that was her name. He saw her just as she was heading away from the LeBlancs. She seemed to be looking for someone. He decided on the direct approach and planted himself firmly in front of her.

"Mrs. Darrow," he said, in tones of delight, "I´m glad I caught you. I´m Paul Rooney, the chief financial officer at the Cit? I can´t tell you how impressed I am that you are going to be singing the lead role in _Persephone,_" he said, extending his hand.

Christine looked startled, but shook his hand and smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Rooney. I´m delighted to make your acquaintance. I wish I could say I beat out 500 other people for the role at an audition, but you know that my husband is the composer."

"It must be a difficult life, living with a temperamental composer," said Paul, rather too emphatically.

Christine frowned slightly and glanced quickly to the sides. Paul, frightened of losing her attention and, thus, his opportunity, tried a tactic which had worked for him in the past.

"What a lovely bracelet!" he said, seizing Christine´s wrist and bringing it close enough to his face so that he could examine the jewels. "Are those yellow diamonds?" he asked, looking closely.

Christine was extremely tense now. Paul had fastened onto her wrist and apparently refused to let go. She cursed his fascination with her bracelet, as well as the fact that there was no polite way to get him to release her arm. Suddenly, she stiffened even more. Paul was caressing the skin of her wrist slowly with his thumb.

"Mr. Rooney…" she started, trying her best to keep her voice controlled.

"Please, call me Paul," he said, as smoothly as he could manage.

"If you do not relinquish my wife´s arm immediately, no one will call you _anything _henceforth, ever again!" hissed Erik Darrow. He seemed simply to have materialized at Paul´s elbow.

Paul dropped Christine´s wrist. Without taking his eyes off Paul, Erik stretched his arm – _a sheltering wing_ -- towards his wife, beckoning her. She gratefully went to his side, and he pressed her to himself, still staring at Paul. There was something about that unrelenting amber gaze that terrified him. His breathing was troubled, as though someone had clamped a cold hand on his throat. The pressure on his throat seemed to tighten, and a cold sweat broke out on Paul´s forehead.

"Erik?" asked Christine, her voice timid. Erik looked down at Christine, and Paul could breathe again, suddenly.

He fled. He did not care who saw him retreat, though in the end it seemed few people really noticed him. Raoul de Chagny did, however, and Paul did not miss the malicious smile he directed at him as he left the ballroom. From that moment he hated Raoul de Chagny with everything in him.

* * *

Christine checked her children as soon as she arrived home. Miles was asleep, and she kissed him on the cheek and left his room. James was still awake, however, and smiled sleepily when he saw his mother.

"Did you dance, Mommy?" he asked, propping himself up on an elbow. He was five years old now, and his conversation consisted mostly of questions.

"Yes, sweetheart, we danced. What did you do while we were gone?"

"Had a bubble bath, then a video. Papa?"

"James," said Erik, softly, his voice a caress. He stood in the doorway, waiting for Christine. She kissed the boy goodnight and joined her husband. They made their way toward the bedroom.

"Tomorrow it starts," said Christine, with trepidation in her voice.

"Don´t be afraid. There will only be music rehearsals, initially, and I shall be there," Erik replied.

"Krystine Castro loathes me," complained Christine, shuddering. Krystine Castro was the reigning star of the City Opera and the toast of the city. She projected such a magnetic persona that critics often forgot to note that her mezzo was not particularly brilliant.

Erik grimaced slightly.

"Miss Castro is merely playing the role expected of her – that of the spoiled prima donna. In the end, she must understand that I wrote _Persephone _for your voice, not hers. She will make a fairly acceptable Demeter, I think."

"I really don´t think she sees things that way," Christine sighed. She dropped her wrap in an armchair and then yielded to her tiredness, stretching out on the bed, gown and all. Erik, who had removed his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, hovered over her. His hands moved through the folds of her dress in a quick inspection.

"No notes this year?" he asked, almost harshly. Christine stifled a moan.

"Erik, he only slipped me a note that one year, and it could hardly be called a note – it was a single word…"

"It was enough," Erik said, and his voice went into a mocking falsetto, "´Someday´!" -- then lowered to a growl. "I´ll give him _someday_! I should have killed the boy years ago!"

Even a couple of years before, Christine would have felt alarmed; she would have retorted that Erik had promised her faithfully that he would be responsible for no more deaths.

The years, however, had taught her about her husband. She had learned to deflect his wrath, and even to manipulate his actions and emotions – all with great subtlety. She knew her husband´s weak points.

"Erik," she said tenderly, and she rose, slowly and carefully removing her dress, then her underpinnings. Her husband watched, absorbed, his anger completely forgotten. Christine approached him, gently removing his shirt and kissing his neck. Her hands moved gently over his shoulders, and she made it a point to kiss the scar on his left shoulder. They both knew how _that _injury had occurred, and she was happy to stir the memory, now that she could laugh about it. Erik accepted her ministrations hungrily, passive as he interpreted her movements. "You know how I love you, don´t you?" she whispered, and his response was immediate and passionate.

Erik could be somewhat rough when he used lovemaking to allay his fears, and tonight he was brutal. Christine knew she would be hiding love bites the next morning, but she did not care in the least as she responded with equal passion to her husband´s rough caresses. She made certain that _he _would be exhibiting love bites, too. _And good luck hiding them!_ Another point scored for marital equality, though she knew she could never leave him with the same postcoital soreness he so enthusiastically inflicted on her.

Afterwards, there was peace in Erik´s eyes, and his arms were gentle once more.


	27. Chapter 27

**My heartfelt gratitude to those who have taken the time and effort to review. The reviews really help!**

**This chapter is a long one -- I only hope it´s not TOO long, especially since so much of it is from Raoul´s POV.**

**I do not own POTO, or its characters.**

* * *

Raoul de Chagny left the café on Greene Street on Sunday with a lighter step than usual. Gone was his usual air of despair, and he even waved and smiled to people as he left. He had scarcely caught a glimpse of Christine as she entered and exited the soup kitchen across the street, clearly avoiding his gaze. It did not matter, however. Soon he would have ample time to see her and to speak with her. In his mind, he had rehearsed what he would say to her a million times over, the words which would make her see, which would make it clear to her that he loved her. He held few hopes of tempting her away from her marriage. Still, he felt he could never rest until he had finally spoken with her – _closure _was the word which ran through his head like a mantra. She had been wrenched from his life so abruptly, he felt, that many things had been left unspoken between them. He would speak with her soon, though, and he would also let her know that he would be her shelter should Darrow ever fail her. He would never abandon the idea, the _truth, _that he and Christine would be together some day, even if it took years.

Was it suffering which had made him a romantic?

His marriage to Chelsea was a farce, of course. It always had been, but Darrow had known his greatest weakness, exploited it, and tied him into this travesty. He had needed money, and he had sold himself. The humiliation of it was almost unbearable to him, especially every Christmas, when he inevitably received Darrow´s annual gift – a year´s supply of marital counselling, gratis.

Did his hatred of Darrow make Christine more attractive to him? Perhaps. Did her inaccessibility have the same effect? Maybe. He had considered these little psychological traps, now that he was more in touch with his own foibles, but after lengthy soul-searching, he considered them to be of little importance. The truth was that time had taught him to appreciate Christine and to see things that, in his youthful blindness, he had not perceived years before.

Christine was now his ideal. He constantly replayed scenes of their lives together in his mind, cursing himself for not remembering more. There was one scene that he remembered with perfect clarity, perhaps because he had been irritated at the time and his mind had chosen to relish everything it had deemed a defect in Christine. She had just cleared away the dishes, and he had been watching a game on television.

"…_and I told her I would ask you. So, what do you say?"_

_Raoul realized he had not been listening to Christine. Why did she have to bother him now, anyway? _

"_What did you say?" he asked, turning down the volume irritably._

_She glanced down briefly _(You hurt her, you moron! Why didn´t you realize it at the time? Why?)_, then repeated her question. _

"_Meg was thinking we could get together at the Vasco – you know, a sort of double date? She´s seeing someone new, you know. We could eat there and then later maybe see a movie. This would be next Saturday night, but I think I could get that night off. What do you say?"_ (Say yes, you idiot! Say yes!)

_Christine tucked an unruly strand of hair behind her ear and waited, hope in her eyes._

"_That´s a nice idea, sweetheart, but I was hoping to maybe see Phil and the guys on Saturday. They´ll be coming here. I hardly see them during the week, you know, because work has me crazy. How about we take a rain check on that?" Raoul asked, smiling his best in spite of his annoyance. _

"_Oh, okay," Christine said, "Maybe the weekend after?" _

_Raoul sighed heavily, said nothing, and turned the volume up again. _

He repeated this dialogue in his head time after time. In his mind´s eye, he was like Ebenezer Scrooge, guided by the Ghost of Christmas Past – he was able to contemplate scenes from his past with such perfect clarity that he could stand in his old living room and scream invectives at himself. His former self remained completely deaf, however. And blind where he should have seen. And mute where he should have spoken.

To exacerbate things, Raoul had gone back into old files and combed bank accounts, check stubs, and receipts. The reality they painted was damning indeed. He had not only been selfish and unkind in his everyday treatment of Christine – he had permitted her to foot the bill for everything, too. His own bank account had thrived, while Christine´s had barely stayed in the black, and that was only because she was an absolute magician at managing a budget. The memory of her cheap clothes, of her bus pass on the night table, of her rapidly putting away the duster or vacuum when he stepped into the apartment unexpectedly – all of these ghosts came back to haunt and accuse him.

Darrow had known exactly when to take Christine, and how. He was an older and much more experienced man than he, ruthless and calculating. Why Christine, though? How had Darrow seen her and known her for what she was so quickly, when it had taken Raoul years to realize it? Christine was a beauty, but there were beautiful people in abundance living in the city, and Darrow could certainly have had his pick.

Why Christine?

Raoul had been ignorant in thinking that he could adapt well to life with a wife like Chelsea. He mocked himself now, remembering what he had thought at the time of his wedding: _Well, Christine annoyed me, too, once, so perhaps I should give Chelsea a chance…_

He had given Chelsea a chance. He had given Chelsea many chances. More mature now, Raoul recognized his error in comparing someone with Christine´s character with someone like Chelsea.

Chelsea was a shrew. There was no way around that fact, and there was no way to recycle her. She had spent such an amazing amount of money in the initial months of their marriage that Raoul, fearing bankruptcy, had put her on a budget. It was a generous budget, but Chelsea still succeeded at exceeding it from time to time. She did seem to be trying, however.

She craved his attention constantly, nagged him, clung to him, and demanded things of him. She had a tantrum one month after their wedding because he had not gotten anything for their one-month anniversary. His refusal to satisfy her resulted in her going out and buying a pedigreed Corgi, a disagreeable, foul-tempered animal which hated Raoul and which Chelsea doted on.

Raoul continued to caress memories of Christine, and Chelsea realized it, much to his dismay.

"You need to stop panting after that bitch, Raoul, and wake up! I´m your wife now, and I deserve your respect," Chelsea had said one day, somewhat haughtily.

Raoul had delivered her such a look of absolute hatred that Chelsea, dense as she was, knew better than to touch on the subject again.

He tried fruitlessly to communicate with Christine in surreptitious ways, and had even slipped her a desperate, one-word note at the Charity Ball one year. "Someday," he had written, hoping she would understand. He had dared to hope for some sort of reply from her, or at least a reaction. He thought he had obtained something along those lines when a note arrived the next day by messenger: "Never," it had read, however -- in a firm, masculine hand which was not at all like Christine´s fine script. The message was clear.

In desperation, Raoul had decided to visit the café in front of the Greene Street kitchen. He knew Christine´s Sunday schedule, and just a glimpse of her was like water to a man dying of thirst. He watched her assiduously – he witnessed both of her pregnancies as they advanced and suffered from her absences after the babies came. His envy and hatred of Darrow grew. _I should have had a family by now!, _his heart shrieked.

Chelsea had been trying for years to have a child, with no success. She had blamed Raoul, and Raoul, in turn, had blamed her, though he was secretly relieved that she had not conceived. He loved children, but he could barely tolerate Chelsea.

Chelsea started to take lovers. In her desperation for attention, she left obvious clues to her adulterous activities lying around the house, in plain view, for Raoul to see. He simply ignored them.

Raoul himself had been having extramarital encounters for years by then. He never had any long-term affairs, however, and he always made it clear that he was simply having fun. He dreamed of Christine and left each encounter feeling empty.

Today, however, Raoul finally had reason for hope, and it was thanks to that oily little CFO at the City Opera. Christine would be in rehearsals for weeks at the Cit, and --imagine the coincidence! – Raoul would be the partner heading an audit engagement team which would be examining the Cit´s accounts. He would see Christine every day, if he wanted to, with the benediction of a work-related motive.

As he approached his car, Raoul zipped his jacket. There was still a late-winter chill to the air, but he could sense the approach of spring.

* * *

In the rehearsal hall, the Cit´s dramatic tenor, Robert Brenner, was struggling with _This Hunger_, a very sexual piece sung by Hades. It was a song meant to express the character´s tormented emotions after having seen and fallen in love with Persephone.

"Robert, why don´t we go through bars fifteen through thirty again?" said George Yoo, the musical director. "I know, I know," he added, laughing and fanning himself. "This music sure gives off a lot of heat!"

"Yeah, there sure are a lot of references to _appetite _in this opera," Brenner commented. "Do you think we could break early for lunch?"

There were some uncomfortable titters. The assembled cast had been muttering nervously, disquieted by the sensual torment the music represented. Brenner himself appeared to be uncomfortable, and Christine thought he was blushing slightly.

The door banged open, and Krystine Castro sauntered in, all smiles, jewelry and fur. All of the cast, save Christine, surged forward to greet her. Christine heard a small yap, and, startled, found the source of it: a tiny reddish Pomeranian, almost indistinguishable against the backdrop of its owner´s fur coat. Ms. Castro put the dog down, and it immediately rushed over to Christine and started barking at her. The group surrounding the diva directed malicious, amused glances in Christine´s direction, and then, ignoring her completely, continued its animated conversation with the celebrated Ms. Castro.

Krystine Castro was an extremely attractive woman in her fifties. She was warm, kind, and charming to all – except Christine, it seemed. She was the toast of the city, an established symbol at a multitude of benefits and charity events. She had gained a reputation as the approachable, hardworking product of her own efforts, and any idiosyncrasies and caprices that she might display were all considered part of her quirky charm.

George Yoo, returning to his wooden podium, cleared his throat noisily, and Ms. Castro laughed.

"I know what you´re _not _saying, George – I´m late, I´ve interrupted this rehearsal, and on top of that, I need to warm up. Just give me a few minutes, people," she said, raising her voice slightly to address the entire room. "You know I´m a professional – not like _some _other people," she said, directing a poisonous glance in Christine´s direction.

"I beg your pardon?" said Christine, but Ms. Castro pointedly ignored her and went about warming up. The rest of the cast appeared to be lost in quiet conversation. An occasional glance toward Christine betrayed the fact that she was the subject of the murmurs, and she could not help the blush that crept up her face. She could deal with the icy civility of the rest of the cast, but Krystine Castro´s outright rudeness was like a slap in the face. She felt, suddenly, like an adolescent back at school.

When, finally, Ms. Castro was ready, she riffled through the sheet music, then indicated something to George Yoo. He looked startled, but Ms. Castro merely laughed at his discomfiture.

"Please, George," she said, "It seems I have to prove myself all over again."

"Right," he replied, and, after a brief chat with the accompanist, added, "From the top."

Ms. Castro began to sing an aria, but it was not the piece which Christine expected. It was "Most Rare and Amazing," Persephone´s surprised response to her newly-discovered love for her husband. Ms. Castro was taking over Christine´s role!

Christine, fighting back tears of frustration, listened as the diva interpreted the aria in her own rather grandiose style. It was certainly not the way Erik wanted it sung, and Erik would be hiding somewhere nearby right now, listening, as he dearly wished to avoid showing himself….

"That was very _interesting _indeed," snarled Erik. Somehow, his voice cut through the applause the cast members had accorded Ms. Castro´s display. Christine was the only person in the room who did not jump at Erik´s sudden appearance; she was accustomed to such things from him. He stood, arms folded, near George Yoo, who took an instinctive step backwards. A chill seemed to permeate the room now, and the Pomeranian whimpered. Erik shot it an icy glance, and it was quiet.

After a minute of silence, Ms. Castro rose to the occasion.

"Mr. Darrow," she said, with a supercilious smile, "I´ve performed in works of yours many times, and you must understand that, as much as you love your wife, she is a nobody, an interloper, and I don´t think she´d be capable of working well with a seasoned cast – at least, in a starring role. Maybe something less challenging…."

"Christine," interrupted Erik, "You will sing this aria yourself, now, from the beginning." He approached the piano as he said this and was seated before it and playing the introduction in an instant.

Christine sang the aria as Erik had taught her, very careful to pretend that she was alone with him and that there was no audience at all. Very soon she was soaring, ecstatic with the joyous emotion which Erik had inspired within her. As she ended, she did not need to be told that she had performed well.

Erik left the piano and stood with his habitual ramrod posture, staring at the cast members, his hostility patent. The room was as silent as a tomb, and the eyes of every last person who had heard Christine – except, of course, Erik – reflected unabashed amazement.

Ms. Castro´s hiss broke the silence. "Brassy bitch," she said.

"Ms. Castro, please," implored George Yoo, "Remember…"

"I don´t care if her husband is the composer. I don´t care how rich he is, or how much he contributes to the Cit," she snarled, and turning toward Christine, said, "You don´t know who I am or how hard I´ve had to work to get where I am. Nearly everyone in this room has been with me for years and seen how I´ve suffered. Three marriages I´ve had – three!—each one of them failed, for my art. I understand you have children? Motherhood was _out of the question _for me! I´m the one who moves ticket sales at this place and who talks with the damn reporters who later write that I´m _so over-the-top_! I´ve been here for decades, and a star for nearly as long. I even survived the Ghost´s reign of terror, years ago. I will not be displaced by an upstart who just happens to have married well! I will not be Demeter! I will not play the role of a _matron_! I have worked harder…"

"… and slept with more influential arts patrons…" cut in Erik´s voice, laden with cold sarcasm.

Ms. Castro went livid to the roots of her bleached hair. Erik, who had gravitated to Christine´s side, quickly brushed her cheek with his hand.

"Go take a break, my love," he whispered gently, "I shall deal with this."

Christine left the room quickly. As she approached the door, her foot slipped on something. She looked down, and saw that she had skated in dog excrement. Ms. Castro´s laugh accompanied her out the door.

She glanced down the hallway, intent on getting to a restroom to clean her shoe off. As she was about to turn into another corridor, she saw a figure there who she quickly recognized: Paul Rooney. She darted back and started in the other direction, cursing her bad luck. What was the CFO doing in this part of the complex? She made for a practice room, hoping that the Kleenex in her purse would be enough to clean her shoes for the moment. She had just sat down when a knock sounded at the door. She exhaled in frustration.

"I´ll only be a moment more," she called, wondering with what unerring instinct she had managed to secrete herself into the most popular practice room on the floor.

There was another knock – a formality, it seemed, because the person did not wait for an answer, and the door immediately opened. Raoul de Chagny entered.


	28. Chapter 28

**Hugs, roses, and my eternal gratitude to the kind folks who review.**

**I do not own POTO, or its characters.**

* * *

Christine froze in her chair, her mind wildly casting about for escape routes. _Well, there´s a ledge outside that window,_ she thought desperately. Then she thought about the consequences that there would be should Erik find her perched on a ledge four floors up. Her flight reaction exhausted, she now readied herself for a fight.

"Raoul, _what_, in the name of all that´s holy, are you doing here?" asked Christine in quiet anger. "Don´t you know that Erik could ruin you over this?"

"You´re talking about the _contract_, I see," answered Raoul. "Remember the clause which stipulates that if, in the course of my work, I´m required to be near you, then I won´t be penalized?"

It was true. Raoul´s lawyer had insisted that the clause be inserted, and Christine had thought nothing of it at the time.

"How on earth could your work take you way over here?" asked Christine irritably.

"The Cit´s being audited, and my firm is in charge of it," said Raoul, "and since it doesn´t look like Rooney kept very clear accounts, we might be hanging around for a while."

"I hope that your stumbling into this practice room was a simple coincidence," sighed Christine, desperately hoping against hope that it could be so.

"Christine, you know I´ve been wanting to talk to you. Nothing else, okay? I have so much that I´ve wanted to say to you…."

"Well, now´s definitely not the time!" snapped Christine, and, opening her purse, she proceeded to look for a Kleenex. She pulled out a hairbrush, a rolled-up pair of child´s socks, and an old pacifier. Finally, she found some hand-wipes and started to wipe her shoe.

"In case you haven´t noticed, Raoul, I am involved in a _marriage_," she said, rather briskly, "and you may have noticed that there are _children _involved now. I´m busy with my family, and you have no place in my life now, not even as a friend, because you upset my husband. I really have no idea what you´re thinking, and I really don´t want to know."

"Christine, please…"

The door jerked open suddenly, and Paul Rooney stuck his head in. Christine bit back a scream and quickly rose to leave.

"Oh, hey," he said, smiling toothily at both Raoul and Christine. His eyes quickly travelled up the length of Christine´s body; she suppressed a shudder. "I thought I might find you here. You kids having fun?"

"I was just leaving," spat Christine, quickly plowing past Paul and into the corridor. She headed toward the rehearsal hall at a rapid pace, and once she reached the door, she looked through its window. Erik´s back was to her, and he was facing the cast members, who were now organized, seated, in a tidy semicircle. Christine studied them; they were pale-looking and glassy-eyed, and, though she could not hear what Erik was saying to them, she could detect the occasional obedient nod, even from Ms. Castro.

"Oh, dear," Christine sighed, her back against the wall now. She permitted herself to slide slowly down until she was sitting on the floor, then covered her face with her hands.

Some minutes passed. Something landed on her head.

"Mommyyyyy!" Miles cried elatedly.

"Now, Miles, don´t throw Mr. Elephant at your mother," said Mrs. Donovan.

"Is she sick?" came James´s voice. "Can we take her home?"

Christine parted her fingers so that she could peek out through them. Miles giggled.

"Are you alright, Mommy?" asked James solicitously.

Christine smiled at the klatch standing before her and pulled the stuffed elephant off her head.

"I´m fine, honey," she said.

"Why are you sitting there like that?" James inquired.

"Well, I´ve had a rough morning, dear. Let me put it to you this way – Mommy´s working with the Wicked Witch of the West," said Christine.

"Ohhh," breathed Miles, impressed. James stood quietly, studying Christine Erik-style.

"Where´s papa?" he asked, finally.

"He´s in that room," said Christine, gesturing toward the door, "throwing a bucket of water on the witch."

Miles giggled again and threw himself into Christine´s lap, but James frowned, analyzing what his mother had just said. He was a solemn boy, rather mature for his age, and he hated it when adults were condescending. His papa, who he adored, never treated him like a baby, and he loved it.

Christine rose to her feet, Miles wriggling in her arms. Mrs. Donovan, who had been standing quietly in the background, cleared her throat.

"They both wanted to see you, dear, but I told them it would be difficult, what with your schedule and all. But I brought them down anyhow, just to see the Cit," she said.

"Hello, Papa," said James. Christine turned around, schooling her features into a relaxed smile as she greeted Erik. As she had expected, he scrutinized her carefully as he transferred Miles, who was becoming heavy, to his own arms. Finding nothing, however, he quickly ushered his family out of the building, heading home.

* * *

"I´m sorry about this morning, Erik," said Christine apologetically when they were finally alone. "I know you wanted to stay out of sight. If I had only known how to handle Ms. Castro…"

"Ms. Castro is completely unmanageable, but she shall learn to behave herself or face the consequences," Erik growled. "She was well-behaved years ago, when I kept a close watch on the Cit. I shall bring the cast to heel yet, and if in doing so I must make myself visible, so be it."

"We left rather early today, Erik," observed Christine.

"I left the rest of the cast to practice without you, with specific orders regarding how they are to read through their roles. They shall be ready for you to join them tomorrow morning. I daresay you will find them infinitely more pleasant tomorrow than you did this morning," said Erik. He looked at his watch. "I do hope he remembered to unlock the door and let them out," he murmured.

"Unlock….? Erik! You locked the cast in?"

"Absolutely necessary, my love. They require discipline…"

"But, Erik, I saw how you managed them! That wasn´t discipline, they were…under your influence!"

"It´s a short hop from unconscious to conscious discipline. They will catch on. Besides, I can accomplish so much more that way, in a very short time. For example -- I have been able to convince Ms. Castro, without her knowledge, to very generously entertain complete strangers on her way home today."

"Entertain strangers? Erik, what have you done?"

* * *

The evening news was filled with what Erik had done.

On her way home that day, Ms. Castro had stopped her car at the busiest intersection in the city, blocking an entire lane. She had then positioned herself in the middle of the intersection, clasped her hands together, and proceeded to cluck the national anthem as a chicken would, but in her best mezzo. A news crew captured her feat, which was not surprising – she repeated the anthem twenty times so that no one who wished to see the event could possibly miss it. Several people tried to stop her, but she did not appear even to see them. After her nineteenth repeat, she suddenly seemed to wake up. "Oh, my God!" she exclaimed, then ran to her car. A stunned populace made way for her as she drove away.

Christine sat at the foot of the bed, her eyes wide with shock, as she listened to Krystine Castro hit the anthem´s high notes in a strangled-sounding mezzo cluck. Erik sat behind his wife, his back propped against the headboard, laughing maniacally.

_What a day__!, _thought Christine.

* * *

Erik was right, as always – the next morning, Christine found the demeanor of her fellow cast members to be much more cordial.

Krystine Castro did not stage a grand entrance today – in fact, she was one of the first artists to turn up. As she slinked quietly into the rehearsal room, Christine could not help feeling sorry for her. The newspapers and radio stations had picked up on the story of her famous solo at the intersection to the point of saturation. Ms. Castro had a good publicist, however, who passed the entire incident off as a publicity stunt designed to promote the upcoming opera. That did not liberate her from the patriotic wrath of a local veterans´ group, which had taken umbrage at the offense she had committed against the national anthem. In order to win back their good graces, she was scheduled to perform in a concert in their benefit in July.

The rest of the week passed swiftly, and Christine quickly found her footing with the rest of the cast. George Yoo was very pleased with the singers´ progress, and Erik did not feel the need to put in another appearance. Christine could _feel_ him observing their work carefully, however, and was glad of it, and not only for artistic reasons: if his attention was focused on their work, then it was less likely that he would discover Raoul´s presence in the Cit complex. She was worried, however, that it was only a question of time.

Although Christine did not see any sign of Raoul for the rest of the week, Paul Rooney seemed omnipresent. She did her best to ignore him, but she loathed his brazen stare and his overly friendly overtures. She was relieved when the week finally ended.

* * *

"Chicken étouffé," pronounced Meg thoughtfully after assessing the ingredients available to her at the Greene Street kitchen. _The girl´s an alchemist,_ thought Christine in amazement.

"I think I note Joe´s influence in your cooking," Christine said. "Isn´t that extremely Creole?"

"Honey, _everything_ about that hunk is extremely Creole," said Meg. "I pick up a lot of his ideas, and he picks up a lot of mine. He does Marmitako now, only with lots of cayenne!" She lowered her voice to a confidential, husky whisper. "We cross-pollinate a lot, and not just in the kitchen…"

Christine laughed and flicked a piece of the shallot she had been dicing at Meg, who quickly threw it in a pot.

"So, tell me about that nutcase soprano -- the one who thinks the whole world´s her opera house."

"I´ve been dying to all week! Meg, she hates me! Erik has her muzzled, so to speak, but she resents me because I´m an upstart and I´ve got the lead role. She even gave me a lecture about how hard she worked to get where she is."

"Oh, it´s _that _kind of hate," said Meg. "I know the deal. I´ve had much older chefs resent me because I´m young, but it´s not so bad now. The real problem is the men who think a woman has no place in the kitchen," she mused.

Christine looked at her inquiringly.

"I mean in the kitchen of a high-end restaurant, cooking and supervising staff for _money_," Meg clarified.

Christine nodded her understanding, then returned to the subject. "Well, Krystine Castro hates and resents me, and she´s kind of an icon. It´s terrible to be hated by an icon! Everyone loves her and think´s she´s such a great artist, even though her voice isn´t that spectacular. I mean, it´s good, but I just don´t think it´s _great. _That doesn´t matter. You know, they say the Cit insured her voice for a million dollars!"

"Oh, so that´s where they got the money to build the new wing!" exclaimed Meg airily, but then added, more soberly, "Look, honey, don´t let that witch rain on your parade. You´ve been working on that role for years, which is more than anyone at the Cit can say. Besides, you´ve got Erik on your side, so why worry?"

"Well, now that you mention the subject of worry…I´ve got something to worry about, alright," Christine said. She dropped her voice to a whisper. "Raoul´s at the Cit working on an audit."

Meg dropped her knife, her gaze locked on Christine as it went clattering to the floor.

"No!" she rasped. "Please be joking!"

"I wish I were," Christine said miserably. "He ambushed me in a practice room on Tuesday, but I managed to get away from him before Erik found out. I´m worried he may try to approach me again. And if that weren´t enough, I keep running into that Paul Rooney, too..."

"You´re kidding! That little jerk with the bad comb-over who kept coming on to every woman at the Charity Ball?"

"The very same," Christine sighed.

There was a silence. Finally, Meg spoke.

"How would it be if I visited you at your rehearsals once in a while? I mean, not all the time, but maybe sometimes when you break for lunch? I could pick up James from kindergarten and bring him, too," she said slowly.

Christine gave her such a quick, powerful hug that Meg staggered, slightly off balance.

"You…are…the _best ever_!" Christine said, nearly in tears.

* * *

As Christine left the Greene Street building that evening, an involuntary glance across the street revealed Raoul at his usual post near the café window.


	29. Chapter 29

**Many thanks to the kind folks who brighten my day by reviewing!**

**Another long chapter, I´m afraid, and it starts with the description of a pig. My apologies, and Happy Wednesday!**

**I do not own POTO, or its characters.**

* * *

_Women, _thought Paul Rooney angrily as he went over the figures in his bank account. Two ex-wives, and he was facing ruin. It could have been worse. There could have been kids, and he could have been paying child support as well as alimony. He was fortunate that his marriages had been so short-lived that they had produced nothing more than acrimony.

_What is wrong with women, anyway?, _he asked himself as he observed himself in the mirror, not without admiration. He had been given a list of his faults by both his exes: he was vain, they said, self-centered, egotistical, and a slob, as well as stingy and unfaithful. And a pig. Well, maybe he was vain, but he had reason to be. He kept himself in good shape by working out regularly, and he still had a reasonable mane of light-brown hair. It was thinning, it was true, but he combed it in such a way that no one could tell at all. _And look at that! Who wouldn´t just die for those pecs?, _he asked himself proudly, sucking in his stomach.

_Self-centered, egotistica__l, stingy…bullshit! The problem with women these days is that they´re spoiled rotten. _

_A slob…_Paul looked around at the disaster that was his bedroom. Clothes were crumpled up in every corner, and the bed, as ever, was unmade, and the sheets stank. _Well, who cares? _

_Unfaithful…_Well, a man had his needs, and Paul could not figure out why women were not more understanding about this fact.

_A pig…?_

A six-figure salary working at the Cit provided him with great clothes, cars, a stylish flat near the city center, ex-wives, and debts piling up. So far, he had managed to put the creditors off, but it would not last forever. When the moment of truth – and personal bankruptcy – arrived, he would be far away, in Guyana, enjoying the money he had quietly stashed away in a Swiss bank account over the course of five years.

497,202.05. It had been a feat of financial engineering, but with the help of three offshore companies in the West Indies, he had done it.

The problem now was one Raoul de Chagny. He ground his teeth just thinking about the s.o.b. It was not enough that he had been _in Paul´s office_ going through his books and hard drives. The man _enjoyed _his work, and he was scrupulous and conscientious, and he had _noticed _something amiss with the expenses. De Chagny had insisted on moving certain computers and other material he was examining to a room far away from the administrative wing – all the way to a quiet room near the rehearsal hall where, he had said, he would not be disturbed in his work. He had left the rest of the audit team in Paul´s office.

Paul smiled to himself. He knew exactly why De Chagny was ensconced in a room near the performance and rehearsal halls. It had to do with that hot little number, Christine Darrow. There was definitely something going on there.

Granted, he could certainly understand De Chagny´s interest in her. What he failed to understand, however, was why the woman´s husband did not scare the living daylights out of him. Paul remembered the humiliating evening of the Charity Ball, and how he had feared for his very life.

Paul had been humiliated, it was true, but he had his pride, and it demanded redress. In order to remind the high-and-mighty Mrs. Darrow that she was just another woman – the same tits and ass under those expensive togs as any other female – and that _he_ was a _man_, he made it a point to make her uncomfortable at every opportunity. _Let´s see what your husband can say if I just look at you – especially certain parts of you. It´s a free country!_ At any rate, somebody had to make sure the woman knew her place. Paul stirred, just thinking about it. _I need to get laid!_

Too bad Mrs. Darrow was not more facilitating. Her husband would never have to know…Paul´s imagination took him on flights of fancy. It was common knowledge that the Darrows´ marriage had not involved a prenup. Anyone who could get that woman to jump through the necessary hoops could get his hands on an incredible lot of money. Maybe he understood De Chagny, after all.

_Well, patience. _He needed to be patient. He was almost ready to pack up and leave the country, but not quite. For now, he would keep a close watch on De Chagny and the Darrow woman and see if any useful information came his way.

_Patience._

* * *

"What a _pig_!" muttered Meg as she watched Paul Rooney disappear down the hallway, finally, after having given Christine a particularly long, leering look. "What is _wrong _with him?"

"Mind-in-the-gutter syndrome, I guess," said Christine. "He looks at all women that way." She shuddered. "I´m glad you´re not bringing James here anymore."

The atmosphere at the Cit, combined with the adult nature of Erik´s opera, had proved to be completely inappropriate for a curious five-year-old. Now that staging rehearsals had begun, Meg no longer brought him.

"Well, James is here in spirit," said Meg, smiling slyly. She reached into her bag and pulled out what appeared to be a tube of caulk. "Do you know what this is?"

"A tube of caulk?" replied Christine, confused.

"Of course not! It´s full of dog food mixed with bean dip. Joe, James and I created this wonderful recipe for that witch´s dog."

Christine looked at Meg, waiting, but Meg merely signalled to her to accompany her, and they went into the rehearsal room, which would soon be filled with cast and chorus members.

"His Majesty the Dog still leaves doodles around, right? And everybody has to step carefully, right? Well, I´ve just squeezed some of this magic mix out of the tube and left it lying around where the dog has been. It´s brown, it´s disgusting…. It looks just like that Pom´s poo! Now we just wait and see what happens."

The wait was not a long one. Ms. Castro soon entered the room, surrounded by her usual klatch. As soon as she put her Pomeranian down, he made a beeline for the gift Meg had left him and, to his owner´s horror, proceeded to eat it, his tail wagging ecstatically.

Ms. Castro screamed.

"Well, that went well," said Meg, using her cellphone to film the confusion. "James _will_ be pleased when he sees this."

Ms. Castro clutched her dog and seemed ready to faint as Robert and other cast members tried to assist her – without knowing exactly how. There was a great deal of fanning amid the uproar.

Meg continued to film somewhat absently. "So, tell me, have you seen any sign of Raoul lately? Because he must be very discreet. I haven´t seen a sign of him since I started visiting you."

"No," said Christine, breathing a sigh of relief. "Maybe he´s busy. If I´m lucky, he´ll stay that way. I hear that this audit is a really complicated one."

"Well, good," said Meg. "He´d be crazy to approach you. How much money does he stand to lose if he gets caught trying anything with you?"

"A fortune, Meg. I just hope he remembers that."

There was a slight movement just behind them, and Meg turned rapidly.

"What´s going on?" asked Christine as she saw Meg scowl.

"That was Paul Rooney, as I live and breathe, listening in on our conversation," she spat. "Christine, haven´t you had enough? Aren´t you tired of that guy stalking you? Why on earth haven´t you said anything to Erik? He´ll deal with that creep…"

"That´s just what I´m afraid of," replied Christine, trying to shush Meg. Her voice lowered to a whisper. "I´m afraid he could become violent. This is the first time we´ve worked apart – so to speak – since our marriage, Meg, and he´s a little more nervous than usual…" She stopped, unsure how to explain her instincts to Meg.

Meg was sceptical, however. "Christine, your hubby has been calm, cool and collected for years. He´s got a family now. I´m sure he knows how to handle your typical pig without a major drama!"

Christine shook her head.

"Okay, Christine, maybe you haven´t had enough, but I, for one, have _seen_ enough. You won´t tell your husband about that creep? Then _I´ll_ tell him, for your own good!"

And she was gone, leaving Christine trying frantically to call her back with no success.

She looked back at the cast. Rehearsal was on hold while Krystine Castro sat, trembling, in a chair. Robert Brennan was murmuring something to her, and from snatches of audible conversation, Christine gathered that the dog had been taken to a veterinarian. George Yoo paced nervously.

_How on earth does Meg__ even dream of finding Erik?,_ Christine wondered, calming herself with this thought. Erik had remained invisible to the entire Cit complex since that first day when he had shown himself.

She stretched, her tiredness enveloping her. Since she had become involved in the opera rehearsals, Erik had become extremely demanding and hungry for her attention during their time alone. He would often awaken her at night now, and she could truly say she was exhausted for the first time in years. Lulled by the buzzing noise of the various conversations filling the room, Christine began to nod.

She was interrupted by Meg, who grasped her arm suddenly, nearly breathless from running. Her eyes were wild with panic.

"Please come with me, quick, Christine!"

The two ran to an office several doors away. Meg pointed mutely at the door, which was ajar.

Christine entered, and the first thing she noticed was the breeze from the open window. Erik faded into view beside the window – _permitted himself to be seen, _she realized. Why was Erik monitoring an open window? She ran a tired hand over her eyes.

"Rooney´s on the ledge," Meg said softly, as though she were afraid of upsetting something by speaking at a conversational volume.

Christine rushed to the open window and looked out. She could see Paul Rooney, rigid with terror, his back flattened against the building. He was only a couple of feet from the open window, but he was four floors up, and Christine felt the danger he was in intensely, coupled with a conviction: _I´m to blame for this_. She became aware of Erik´s firm hand on her upper arm, preventing her from leaning out any farther.

"Erik," she said, almost whispering, "What is Mr. Rooney doing out there on the ledge?" She felt like screaming.

"I´m not certain what he´s _doing _now, since he is well out of my line of vision. He and I agreed that he should take a little walk…in the interest of his health," said Erik. He looked at his watch. "Two minutes more," he murmured.

"Erik!" said Christine, but he seemed to be concentrating on the window.

Christine turned to Meg. "What happened?"

Meg glanced at Erik quickly, fearful doubt in her eyes, then looked at Christine.

"I told him…about how Rooney was behaving, you know. And he just left. I couldn´t keep up with him, and by the time I found them, they were just walking into this office. Rooney was all glassy-eyed, Christine! He didn´t even blink! He went to the window, opened it, and climbed onto the ledge so quickly I didn´t even have time to yell. And Erik was just standing there, watching…so I got you," said Meg quickly and in a low voice. "Christine, I´m sorry. You were right about him…"

Erik glanced quickly at Meg, his expression unreadable, then returned his attention to the window.

"Erik," said Christine, as calmly and gently as she could, "Mr. Rooney could fall and die. Couldn´t you bring him in?"

"In a few seconds, he will come in of his own accord. He will not fall, unless he is as abysmally clumsy as he is stupid," responded Erik. His eyes glinted with something maniacal.

"He´s terrified! Anything could happen, Erik!"

"No," said Erik, "I don´t think so. He has a vapid little mind, Christine – but you knew that, didn´t you? Well, such a primitive awareness lends itself magnificently to hypnosis. It´s a pity he´s already under…he would make a splendid subject for someone just learning the art, and I have long thought you would make an excellent student. Well, some other time.

"Do you know the most delicious thing about dealing with so easy a subject? No? Permit me to explain what I´ve done. It´s easy to rummage about in the primitive mind of this bovine creature, changing this, altering that – more or less at will. Now, I have left him with an acute awareness of his surroundings, although he is completely obedient. He can appreciate all the fear associated with his current situation. What I have done with this fear of his, Christine, is to associate it intimately, in his mind, with _you."_

"With me? I think I follow you, but I don´t quite understand…"

"When he comes out of this, he will be terrified of the very sight of you. Come, you didn´t think I was doing this without a purpose in mind, did you?"

"Um… I suppose not. But, Erik, couldn´t you bring him in now? He´s beginning to babble and drool!"

"I have reduced him to his most Neanderthal self, I fear. It was necessary. He is now a gelatinous mass of uninhibited impulses, and he is responding to his terror. He will recover," responded Erik.

"But, Erik, please…" pleaded Christine.

Erik looked at her, his eyes calming, then went to the window. At his signal, Paul moved slowly and carefully towards the window. As Erik moved to the side, a sneer on his lips, Christine moved closer to the window, prepared to assist if necessary.

Christine´s assistance was not necessary. Paul paused at the window, drooling, his eyes glassy but fixed on Christine´s chest. Before she even had time to blush, he had launched himself through the window, nearly falling on her, and had placed an exploratory hand on her left breast.

The response was immediate. Erik seized Paul by his lapels with his left hand and delivered him a right uppercut which was so efficient that his victim crumpled into an unconscious heap on the floor.

"Geez, what a mess!" exclaimed Meg, who had been watching and listening to the entire episode in stunned silence. She bent over Paul. "He peed in his pants…and I think you might have broken his jaw," she added, examining him carefully.

"I thought you said he was going to be terrified of me!" exclaimed Christine to Erik, brushing at her blouse as though it were dirty.

"And so he shall be, as soon as he recovers consciousness," said Erik, wiping his hands with an immaculate handkerchief.

"I´m so sorry about this, Christine," said Meg, straightening to her full height and turning her back on Paul´s crumpled form. "I just wanted to help, but I shouldn´t have gone to Erik…"

"AND WHY _NOT_?!" roared Erik so abruptly that both women jumped. He lowered his voice to a steely hiss, his eyes fixed on Christine. "If my own wife is unable to come to me with her troubles, rest assured that it is not _you _who have caused problems by finally, belatedly, enlightening me!"

He moved toward Christine, and something in his eyes caused her to take a step back. This seemed to anger him further, and he pulled her to himself roughly. His entire body was tense with fury, yet Christine carefully noted how he inhaled her fragrance -- in spite of himself, _unwillingly_ -- as he held her. She still had the upper hand, if she knew how to use it. His voice broke through the turmoil of her thoughts and calculations.

"We need to speak, my love. How much more have you been hiding from me?" he snarled, and Christine´s eyes darted involuntarily to Meg´s face. Had she told Erik about Raoul?

Meg turned her head to the side, ever so subtly, the very discreet beginning of a negative shake of the head, and Christine understood: _No, I did not tell him. _

Just as Christine was about to answer Erik, a bloodcurdling scream broke the momentary silence. Paul had awakened and was staring, terrified, at Christine, who very nearly shrieked herself. His face was contorted, and his eyes were now focused and held an awareness in them, but his mouth was bloody and there was foam at its corners.

Meg suddenly found herself alone in the room. Paul had exited with all the speed his toned legs could muster, still screaming. Erik, still clutching Christine, had melted, it seemed, into the nearest wall. The room was empty.

She checked her watch. _Not quite time to go to work, but I think I´ll leave anyway. _


	30. Chapter 30

**Hugs and roses to those who have taken the time and trouble to review! You keep me going.**

**I do not own POTO, or its characters.**

* * *

Erik withdrew, and, reluctantly returning to himself, released Christine´s wrists. It had been an unconscious gesture, but he had held them down, effectively trapping her into passivity, during the entire time he had been joined with her. He continued to contemplate Christine, his body propped slightly on his forearms, his shoulders looming over her in the half-light. She gazed up at him, her body wet with his sweat now, feeling sated and exhausted. They had made love twice in quick succession, and Erik had taken advantage of her fatigue, exploring as much of her mind as he possibly could. Christine was very practiced by now, however, and whatever doors she wanted closed to him remained that way. What did it matter? He could always feel her love, and the peace she willed him to feel as well. Still, Erik´s needs could be insatiable, especially when he felt himself threatened, as he had today. He placed his hands on either side of her head, very gently, and stroked her damp temples with his thumbs.

They had never spoken about this tacit war of theirs – his forays into her most sacred territory, which were always met with stronger and stronger resistance on her part. Christine was more prepared for him now than ever, and she could deflect him without his even knowing that he had been repelled.

He stared at her now, fascination lighting his amber eyes, and she met his stare, willing her eyes to reflect only the love she felt for him. One of her hands found the bad side of his face and stroked it tenderly, while the other traced a line down his spine. She succeeded in raising gooseflesh, and she smiled at him.

"You never answered my question," he said, his voice slightly hoarse.

"What question was that?" murmured Christine lazily; her voice sounded flat and strained, since Erik´s weight on her was pushing down on her lower ribs.

"The…the question of why you did not come to me," Erik persisted. Christine noticed with satisfaction that he required willpower not to become distracted.

"You´ve been busy with the orchestra, Erik, and you hardly need me to come crying to you over trivial things like the Cit´s pet pig," said Christine dismissively. "How could you possibly work well if I behaved like that?"

"I need for you to come to me, Christine," said Erik.

Christine absorbed this, confused, then asked, "Is Rooney going to be terrified of me forever? It´s going to be a little embarrassing, you know…"

Erik smiled. "He deserves such a fate, but you do not. The fear will wear off, gradually, but I am certain that he will never look at you with the same vulgar familiarity again."

"Ah." Christine began to knead Erik´s shoulders and back with her hands. "Erik?"

"Mmm?"

"You said that Rooney was an easy subject?"

"Mmmm…Yes, not much of a mind there. _You_, on the other hand, are impossible…"

Christine stiffened. "You´ve hypnotized _me_?"

She waited, her fingers still.

"Only once, long ago, and I´m not certain how successful it was," he muttered, still regarding her from above.

"Why? ...Erik, how _could_ you …."

His mouth on hers soon silenced her spluttering protests; he needed her again, and as she succumbed to him, one last coherent thought comforted her: _He may have won this battle, but I´m winning the war!_

* * *

It was a very sweet war indeed. Meg had once said that Christine could manipulate Erik, if she so desired, but Christine had hated the entire idea.

Still, if she lulled Erik into peace as she stroked his flesh, what was the harm in it? Erik would always feel fear and uncertainty, but if she had the power to lay them to rest temporarily, she would certainly do so.

She had availed herself of these wiles this afternoon, after Erik had pulled her through the wall into the dusty hidden passages of the City Opera. He had been snarling his anger at her, and she had felt his grip, iron-tight on her. She had scarcely been able to move, but she had been able to press forward and kiss him. His tension had changed course immediately, and his anger had transformed into what it really was: frustrated need. He had stood in the passageway, his chest heaving, his eyes focused on her, wild with realization – _the warrior disarmed! _– and, from that moment, his only concern had been how quickly he could return home with her and take her up to the bedroom.

* * *

Once they had showered and left the bedroom, they were immediately greeted by James, who had constructed a building with his erector set and wanted his father to inspect it. Erik held it up carefully, and as he pointed out its strengths and weaknesses to his son, Christine went to look for Miles.

Miles was the love-object of the entire household staff. "Nature´s masterpiece: the three-year-old," someone had once said, and it was entirely true. Miles was all softness, dimples, and energy. He was more robust in build than James, and he tended to clown. Christine had quickly found, too, that Miles had inherited his father´s temper and tendency _never to sleep._

_Thank goodness for Mrs. Donovan._

Christine might have worried that all the attention Miles received would cause James to be jealous, but this was not the case. Erik and Christine devoted a great deal of attention to James, and their affections were rivalled by those of Meg and Joe. The couple simply adored James and would often visit just to see him, or they would take him on outings and to their restaurants. Whenever Joe worked on a car, he was sure to let James come over to watch and hand him tools.

"Now Joe wants a baby," said Meg as she and Christine worked in the kitchen on Sunday, "and I told him that we can start trying when I´m about, oh, 50 or so."

Christine smiled. Joe was like the waves of the sea to Meg´s firm limestone: his persistence would eventually wear down Meg´s resolve.

"And you? Are you planning on having any more little ´accidents´ again anytime soon?" asked Meg, looking at Christine slyly.

"Heavens, no," said Christine. "You know what our lives are like now, though we may feel differently someday."

"Well, how are you controlling the situation? Didn´t that priest have you on the Russian roulette method?"

"You mean the rhythm method? That ended for me when Miles was conceived! No, I´m on the Pill now, and nobody can tell me anything about it anymore. _I_ decide, from now on, whether I have children or not."

"Amen," said Meg, under her breath. "Then you´re not a Catholic anymore?"

"I´m a cafeteria Catholic, you could say, at least in this regard."

"And it isn´t burning holes in your conscience?"

"Never again," said Christine with finality.

* * *

"Persephone! Do you think you could move with a wee bit more…_passion_, as you approach Adonis here? Remember, he is supposed to be your intended lover – you´re supposed to be _chasing him_, for gosh sakes!" yelled George Yoo as Christine tried for the umpteenth time to execute a scene correctly.

"Sorry," murmured Christine, trying to avoid Krystine Castro´s penetrating glance and catty smile. If there was one thing Ms.Castro did well, it was drama. Christine, however, was entirely different. Her soprano was all that was beautiful, sublime, and passionate, but that was where her theatrical skills ended. "She can´t act her way out of a paper bag," a chorus member had commented within her hearing, and Christine had to admit, rather ruefully, that it was true. She could imagine what people were saying about her when she was out of earshot. She sighed. Although Erik was occupied with the orchestral side of the opera now, it was inevitable that he would eventually hear what people were saying about her nonexistent acting skills. She had never disappointed Erik before, and she was not looking forward to this first time.

Christine went through the scene twice more, and each time seemed worse to her.

George was tearing at his sparse hair.

"Do you know what people are going to see here, _Persephone_?!" screeched George. "They are going to see an Adonis who has been directed, very correctly, to look _afraid_ of a goddess´s towering passion for him. Now, how is the audience going to like it when Adonis reacts in fear to Persephone´s towering _indifference_?! They´ll want their money back! Nobody will believe this! Nobody! We´ve got an ice queen and a coward here – just the _perfect_ couple!" He threw a pencil across the room in frustration. "Okay, everyone," he sighed, "Take a break and come back in 15 minutes." He stormed off.

Christine left the rehearsal room quickly, little caring where she was going, and ran blindly down the hall until she had found refuge in an empty practice room. She wiped at tears with the back of her hand, and, breathing deeply, gradually recovered. She sat at the piano and started to play a few bars of the third movement of Chopin´s second piano sonata – the "Funeral March."

The door opened, closed – then opened again. Christine continued to play, not caring to know who had entered. Whoever it was, she wished he would leave. She played as much of the sonata as she could stand, then continued with an "Impromptu" by the same composer. Before she had finished, however, she felt a warm hand on her shoulder. It was not Erik´s, and she stiffened, and her playing ceased abruptly. She scooted off the bench and faced Raoul, who stood before her with uncertainty on his face.

"I would not be here if I were you," said Christine, a tremor in her voice. She glanced toward the door – _as though Erik would enter through the door! _– and then returned a frightened gaze to Raoul´s face.

Christine´s uncertainty seemed to give Raoul courage, and he came towards her, his hand on her elbow as he escorted her to a chair. She collapsed onto it, protesting.

"Have you completely lost your mind?" she spat, in a brisk whisper.

Raoul shook his head, ran a hand through his hair, then pulled up a chair so that he sat in front of Christine, his knees nearly touching hers. He leaned forward.

"Christine, please hear me out. I´ve tried not to bother you or make things harder for you, but I´m begging you to let me say what I have to say to you, okay? Then I´ll never bother you again, if you want it that way."

"Could you be quick?" asked Christine, resigned. Raoul noticed that her eyes were darting around the room nervously.

"He keeps you on a pretty short leash, doesn´t he?" commented Raoul with a touch of bitterness.

"He´s my husband," said Christine, somewhat inanely.

"You don´t need to remind me," said Raoul.

"Are you sure?"

Raoul exhaled, resting his elbows on his knees. "Christine, I just want you to know that I love you and I never wanted things to turn out the way they did between us," he started.

"Now that I´m married it turns out you love me," said Christine sarcastically. "And you´re married now, too. How does your wife feel about this situation?"

"She was never supposed to be my wife!" Raoul exploded. "Please, Christine, I´m _begging_ you to listen!"

The sound of timpani punctuated the sound of the orchestra rehearsing _Persephone_´s overture – the music was drifting down the hallways of the performance wing, and Christine knew that Erik would be busy listening and supervising. She relaxed.

"Very well, Raoul. I´m going to be late getting back to the practice room, but I´m in hot water anyway. So, go ahead! Let´s hear it!" she spat.

"Christine, I want to apologize for the way I treated you when we were together. I was a complete idiot, and I´m sorry. I neglected you and I took you for granted, and I even let you pay for everything…"

Christine looked startled at the last part. "However did you figure that out?" she asked.

"I know I was stupid, but I´m not completely dense. I´ve had a lot of time to go over our memorabilia – all those receipts and stuff – and now I realize what I did. Believe me, Christine, I never _meant _to do that, ever! I just had my head stuck in the sand. If only you had said something…"

"I couldn´t, Raoul," Christine said softly. "I didn´t dare. I was much younger back then, and I was afraid of losing you. And you know what? If I _had_ said something to you, I think I´d have lost you – and you might never have missed me later on."

Raoul considered this possibility, the truth of it mocking him.

"But that never happened!" he argued, frustrated that his carefully prepared speech was going so terribly awry.

"Oh, Raoul, don´t you understand? If you had simply dumped me and gotten over it, then I would be nothing but a pleasant-enough memory. But _I _left _you_, and it set you to thinking. And please don´t tell me you love me, because if you did, you would not be here right now," said Christine, exasperated.

"I do love you! It was always there, Christine, and I have been thinking over how I behaved – it doesn´t matter _why_! And I know how very wrong I was. Could I at least beg your forgiveness…?"

"I forgive you, Raoul. I forgave you a long time ago. Is that what this is about?" asked Christine.

"No! It´s about the fact that we were together because we loved each other once. It´s about the fact that I was an ass and screwed things up – otherwise, we´d still be together. It´s about the fact that I still love you and will always be there for you, if and when Darrow ever screws up. I just want you to know. Remember that, Christine.

"Please don´t forget the good times! Remember how we played together when we were kids? All those years ago, we were together. Remember the summers? Remember your father, how he used to play his violin for us?"

Raoul had hit a tender spot now. Christine stood suddenly, her eyes swimming with tears. Raoul stood, too, gently placing his hands on her shoulders.

"You loved me once, Christine, didn´t you? It wasn´t just an act – you were never like _that_. Didn´t you love me, once?"

Before Christine could react, Raoul had drawn her into an embrace and was kissing her. She stiffened and pushed against him, but he did not release her until, finally, she struggled to push her knee into his groin. She missed completely, but the tactic cooled Raoul´s ardour.

Christine wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "How could you?" she choked, crying in earnest now.

Raoul stood, shamefaced, but before Christine had run out of the room, he called to her.

"I won´t bother you again, Christine, I promise, unless you need me…"

He left the room quietly.

As soon as the room was empty, Paul Rooney entered through the open window. It was strange how the sight of Mrs. Darrow compelled him to climb out the nearest window! He would have to be careful of that. Still, sitting and listening from his vantage point had proved most fruitful. He reflected on this as he checked the images he had just recorded on his cellphone. Raoul de Chagny would be putty in his hands now – putty in his hands!

He left the room with a spring in his step, but no song on his lips; because of his broken jaw, his mouth was wired very nearly shut.


	31. Chapter 31

**Many thanks, once more, to those who have reviewed.**

**I do not own POTO, or its characters.**

* * *

Christine spent the remainder of the afternoon enfuriating George Yoo and the rest of _Persephone´s_ cast. Her lack of talent as an actress, united with her tension after the incident with Raoul, had left her in no condition to concentrate. The director finally ended rehearsal early, his voice hoarse from screaming.

A large room, probably used as a dressing room, provided Christine with a temporary refuge as she tried desperately to collect herself. She wished that Meg were with her, wished desperately to speak with her privately, but Meg had refused to come anywhere near the Cit after the incident with Paul Rooney.

The orchestra would still be in rehearsals, and it occurred to Christine that she should leave a note – where? – _somewhere _in the performance hall, so that Erik might easily locate her.

_I´m in Room 312, waiting for you._

_Christine_

She folded the note hastily and turned toward the door. Erik stood there, however, hastily scribbling some final observations on the margins of the score in his hands. Christine jumped; accustomed as she was to her husband´s silent appearances, her nerves were raw.

Erik glanced up at her in surprise, then narrowed his eyes, assessing her.

"You seem tense, my love," he said softly. The gentle tones of his voice belied the cold, calculating expression in his eyes. The contrast startled Christine.

"I…I think you must know how today´s staging rehearsal went," she said, looking at Erik uncertainly. His gaze had become even more penetrating, and his eyes glowed with an unusual intensity – it was not at all pleasant.

"It does not matter," said Erik dismissively. "I never expected you to be a consummate actress, or even a good one, although I expect your abilities will improve. It is your voice which will carry the role."

Such assurances should have been like water to one dying of thirst, but there was a coolness in his voice which Christine found frightening. She continued with the subject, hoping that Erik would become himself again.

"George Yoo doesn´t seem to agree with your point of view. He spent the day screaming at me and even dismissed us early, as you can see. I know he wants Krystine to have my role, and now I´ve given him good reason to want me replaced."

"I have just spoken with him. I assure you, _he_ has seen reason, and tomorrow he will be much more pliant," said Erik flatly. He approached Christine slowly and extracted the note from her hand.

"For me?" he said, his voice quiet. Yet there lurked beneath it a coiled-up quality that continued to alarm Christine.

"Of course," answered Christine, looking at him in confusion and the beginning of fear.

"Then _why_," he hissed, "Do you reek of Mr. de Chagny´s cologne?"

Christine was given no time to react to her shock. Erik´s hands were on her, supporting her, and the last thing she remembered before she succumbed to darkness were his eyes, so familiar yet suddenly so strange in the coldness of their fire.

* * *

Paul Rooney sat in Raoul´s improvised office, waiting for the inevitable. He calculated Raoul´s probable frame of mind: _Tired of being here now, angry because he struck out with Darrow´s wife, and good and ready to make mincemeat out of me in his current mood. Well, we´ll just see about that!_

Raoul cleared his throat. Paul was right: he relished the news he was about to deliver. After the disastrous scene this afternoon with Christine, Raoul had buried himself in his work – the only thing left which he enjoyed and which, he felt, _empowered _him.

"Mr. Rooney, my team and I have reviewed all your accounts exhaustively, and there appears to be a conflict between our findings and what you have reported," Raoul started.

_I don´t have to hear this._ "Shave yourshelf duh shpeesh, duh Chagny," replied Paul, with as much gravitas as he could muster in his circumstances. He felt a twinge; he had pulled at the wire in his jaw too much while he spoke.

Raoul looked up from the documents he had been perusing, incredulity on his face.

"I beg your pardon?" he said, eyebrows raised.

"I´ve got the goodsh on you, duh Chagny, sho you can just shove thoshe papersh up your assh!"

Raoul froze, at once surprised and confused, trying desperately to interpret what Paul had just said.

Paul produced a cellphone and held it open for Raoul to see. He proceeded to play the recorded images, complete with sound – _cutting-edge technology – _and watched, satisfied, as the color drained out of Raoul´s face. There was a silence as Raoul observed the final soundless images, mortified. They revealed a desperate Christine fighting his own unwelcome advances, her motions frenetic and panicked.

Paul continued to monitor Raoul´s reaction, misinterpreting it completely. Raoul´s mind was not processing the money he would lose should Darrow obtain these images. He was seeing himself, with Christine, as he really was: unwelcome, and even aggressive. He rubbed his eyes with his hands, his humiliation complete.

"That´sh an awful lot of money to loosh," said Paul, mock sympathy in his voice.

Raoul looked up, dull confusion on his face. "I don´t follow you?"

Paul leaned forward and lowered his voice conspiratorially.

"I know about your little deal with Darrow. I know you shtand to loosh everything if he getsh hish handsh on dish," he said, indicating the phone.

"Ah," said Raoul, realization dawning on him. He suddenly felt very tired. "What is it you want, Mr. Rooney?"

"That´sh more like it," Paul answered. "I´m a reashonable man, duh Chagny. I don´t ashk for mush. Jusht more time. You shee? I don´ even want money. Got me a nyshe airline ticket outta here. A few more weeksh to wrap thingsh up, tha´sh all I need. All you gotta do ish get rid ob your team and wait, and ash shoon ash I´m outta duh country you can preshent your audit reshults. Tell ´em it wash a compl´cated audit and that´sh what took you sho long.

"Don´t like thish shet-up," Paul continued, looking around at the room and scratching himself absently. "Thish makesh a shitty offish. But I like thish wing. Lotsh to shee. Sho, how ´bout we move my shtuff and your shtuff to a nisher room while we pash duh time together?"

Raoul watched as Paul took out a handkerchief and wiped a bit of drool off the corner of his mouth. _I´m being blackmailed by a cartoon character, _he mused in bitter resignation.

* * *

James watched surreptitiously as his father poured a second drink from the decanter and settled into an armchair in the living room. Up until lately, his father had always known when he was being watched, and had always flushed his son out with friendly words and quiet affection. Up until lately. James shivered. The foundation of his world was crumbling. Today his parents had come home as they had for the past few days – his mother pale and withdrawn, his father clutching at her rather than embracing her.

His mother devoted more time and attention than ever to James, and to Miles, too, but her nervous smiles and animated conversation failed to hide the fact that their father was simply _not there _for them now. James tried time and again to gain his father´s attention, but he was always greeted with monosyllabic answers, if his questions were answered at all. More often than not his father appeared a ghost, floating through the room and simply existing without responding to anything. His eyes were always on his mother. James was accustomed to that, and it had never bothered him until now. Now, however, his father´s gaze was an unhappy, cold, accusatory thing, and the boy could not help noticing how his mother suffered under it.

His parents´ love for each other had always been the sunlight in his life. James´s instincts were good: he knew that the love was still there and had not gone away, but it _needed help._ He went to the only person he thought might be able to help – his adopted grandpa.

* * *

"Erik," said Nadir quietly as he entered the room, "Where´s Christine?"

Erik directed a cold glance at Nadir. "She´s in the bedroom."

"Why don´t I bring her down? We could have a little chat, just the three of us," coaxed Nadir.

"You´ll have a terrible time getting her to leave the bedroom, I fear," said Erik listlessly.

"I´m sure I can convince her to come down. We´ve always been good friends," insisted Nadir.

"That´s not the problem, Nadir. I don´t doubt that you can convince her to leave the bedroom, not for one minute, but there is a physical problem in the form of a door. It´s a good, solid-oak door, and I´ve locked it, you see."

"You´ve locked your wife in the bedroom?" Nadir asked slowly, careful to keep his voice calm. Instinct told him that anything could set Erik off in his current state.

Erik simply glanced at Nadir.

"Why are you here?" he asked him, finally, a trace of irritation in his voice. _Irritation!_ _Good!_ Nadir knew from experience that any crack in Erik´s emotionless façade was a good sign. He had been through worse, much worse, with Erik. Nadir assessed Erik quickly – he was in great pain, but hope still burned within him.

"James came to me. Whatever is happening between you and Christine is troubling your sons, Erik. Please, speak to me! Have I ever led you astray?"

"You told me that Christine could be mine," growled Erik. His eyes had been vacant, but they were now alive with anger.

_Well, that´s progress_, thought Nadir. "And she _is_ yours," he answered.

There was a pause. Erik´s shoulders trembled. When he finally spoke, his voice was so soft that Nadir had to lean forward in order to hear him.

"I tried to make her mine, but in the end it is I who am hers. I…I even tried to hypnotize her our first night together, Nadir. It was I who planted the suggestion in her mind that she loved me, you know…It was enough for me to _pretend_ that her sentiments were real. But she did not love me of her own choice or volition."

"Erik, I know something of your methods, and I can assure you that no hypnotic suggestion, even of yours, could work steadily for six years! You have to accept that Christine really loves you! Why do you have these doubts, suddenly?"

"De Chagny has been working at the Cit, in close proximity to Christine, during her entire time there. She took advantage of my trust and my distraction and hid this fact from me. I have no idea how much has passed between them, because she – the one person in the world who holds my heart! – she is the one person who knows how to hide things from me!"

Nadir saw the flicker of pain in Erik´s eyes. He was navigating dangerous waters now, and he knew it.

"What makes you think anything has happened between de Chagny and your wife? Erik, she can hardly stand the sight of him!"

"She loved him once – perhaps she loves him still! Am I paranoid, Nadir? Is the stench of another man´s cologne on my wife´s skin perhaps affecting my judgment?"

Nadir´s eyes flicked downwards in an instinctive effort to hide his shock. His reaction was not lost on Erik, however.

"So you see I am not paranoid," he said softly, his shoulders slumping.

Nadir considered what Erik had just said with great care, weighing it against what he knew about Christine´s character.

"Erik, no matter what you think, Christine loves _you, _and feels nothing for…anyone else. There must be some reasonable explanation for the cologne."

"And of course for the note she wrote," added Erik absently.

"Note?"

Erik proferred him the note in a graceful gesture which expressed patience sorely tried.

Nadir read the paper, but could draw no conclusions. "What does Christine say about this?" he asked.

Another flicker of pain passed through Erik´s eyes.

"She says the note was for _me, _but she knows by now that she does not need to notify me, ever, of where she may be…"

"Which is why, knowing how carefully you watch her, she would invite someone to meet with her right under your nose," countered Nadir. "Erik, the note _was _for you. And what does she say about the cologne stink?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? She refuses to speak with you?"

There was a pause. "It is I who cannot bear to speak with her now. Nadir, she is capable of controlling me if I let her too near me. She…blocks me with her mind, she can hide things from me. She causes me to forget my doubts and, much worse, to lose control of myself."

"You are afraid of her," observed Nadir.

Erik was silent.

"Of all the people in the world to be afraid of, you have to fix on the one who loves you and would never do you any harm. Erik, any man but you would have resolved this problem by now and would know that Christine is incapable of even one adulterous thought.

"You are punishing her, Erik – you are punishing her for her intelligence and for having grown in the last several years. Yes, I´ve seen it, too. She handles you well, and why shouldn´t she? Hasn´t she made you happy? Have you been _too_ happy, perhaps? Are you maybe afraid that something so good must end? She has nothing to do with your past, Erik, remember that. You, my friend, are simply borrowing trouble," Nadir concluded, watching with satisfaction as his words took effect.

It was a very slight reaction – a relaxing of the hands, a lifting of the shoulders – but Nadir knew he had hit his mark. He was glad that, through all their difficult years together, his astute judgment of people had never failed his friend.

Erik trusted him, and he trusted his judgment. Nadir noted with some sadness that Christine would probably never enjoy that same level of trust – all because of Erik´s fear of her power over him.

"If I had not taken Christine when I did and as I did, she would still be with de Chagny," offered Erik, rallying his resistance.

"You saw the situation, Erik, and you know perfectly well that whatever there was between those two was falling apart, probably long before you appeared. You did nothing more than hurry along the inevitable.

"You and Christine, though, were fated to be together," added Nadir, studying Erik.

Erik sat for a moment, his gaze distant, and then Nadir watched with wonder as he slowly became himself again. He stood and placed his drink on the sideboard with a grimace of disgust. He ran his fingers through his hair, brushed some lint off his sleeves, and glanced upwards to where Christine would be now, if there were no walls between them. Nadir noticed that the brightness had returned to his eyes.

"You are maddening, Nadir, especially when you are right," Erik murmured grudgingly.

"One more thing, Erik. You´d better be careful how you approach Christine. She´s probably very angry with you by now…Erik?"

Erik had disappeared from the room.


	32. Chapter 32

**Many thanks to those who have taken the trouble to review! I´m extremely grateful.**

**I do not own POTO, or its characters.**

* * *

Christine sat in the window seat, contemplating her predicament as she looked out over the darkening garden. The view from the bedroom was tantalizingly exquisite. Freedom had beckoned from without for three evenings now, and for three evenings she had resisted its call, hoping that she could say something – _anything – _which could penetrate Erik´s icy exterior and move him to reason. She had failed.

For the very first time, she found Erik truly frightening. He had become little more than an automaton, and her every word to him was greeted only with silence as a response. She begged, she pleaded, she coaxed, she reasoned…all to no avail. He was as firm and unyielding as stone.

Their days reflected perfect normality, on the surface. Erik accompanied her to the Cit, where rehearsals continued at a steady pace. As Erik had promised, George Yoo no longer screamed at Christine, and her talent as an actress had shown a marked improvement, although she would never excel. She always felt Erik´s presence, and she concluded that he was neglecting orchestral rehearsals.

Silence accompanied them on their trips home, and once home, Erik would disappear. He no longer dined with his family, and Christine tried unsuccessfully to fill the void he had left with forced cheer, anecdotes and conversation. She was perhaps too affectionate with her boys as she tucked them in at night – they perceived her nervousness, and she knew it -- but she could not help herself.

The worst came once Christine tucked her sons into bed. Erik would appear and, quietly escorting her to the bedroom, would lock her inside. The first evening she had been taking by surprise and she had been unable to react. Her resistance the subsequent evenings had been met by an iron grip – _brute force. _

She slept and awakened alone, except for those moments in half-dreams when she felt Erik´s presence beside her, touching her and weeping. At such moments she very nearly forgot her anger. Very nearly.

Christine was angry indeed – more furious than she had ever been in her entire life. She had inherited much of her father´s easygoing nature, and thus was slow to wrath, but she felt that Erik´s actions trampled upon all she held dear. _My marriage, my freedom...and my children´s wellbeing!_

She paced the length of the bedroom, quietly contemplating the window and thinking. Escape would not be difficult. Bedclothes could be twisted and knotted into an improvised rope, and she would be free in very little time. The only question was how vigilant Erik might be right now. She could imagine a nasty scene should he catch her, but anything, she felt, was better than passively enduring her current situation.

Christine picked up her cellphone. There was one last thing to do before she ran, and she had been putting it off out of fear. She was worried about Raoul, worried that Erik might be capable of injuring or even killing him in his current state of mind. She had no way of knowing whether Erik had done anything yet, or what his plans might be. The possibilities terrified her.

Meg picked up on the third ring, and Christine breathed a sigh of gratitude.

"Hey, what´s up?" she asked, surprise in her voice. Christine had always taken care never to call her at work.

"A bit of an emergency, Meg. Raoul got a little too close to me the other day, and Erik smelled his cologne on me later and jumped to conclusions. Now he´s gone a little haywire and locked me in the bedroom," Christine said rapidly and in a low voice. _The _Reader´s Digest _condensed version, _she thought ruefully.

There was a silence. "Oh, God," said Meg, finally. Christine could hear murmurs and clattering kitchen noises in the background.

"Do you want me to come over, honey?" started Meg, but Christine cut her off swiftly.

"No! No! Thanks so much for offering, but I´ll sort this out myself. But I wish you would help me with one thing, Meg. I´m afraid that Erik might have done something to Raoul, or might do something to him, and I´m scared to call him. I don´t have his number anymore, anyway. Could you call and check on him and let me know if he´s okay? I´m really worried…" Christine trailed off.

"No sooner done than said," said Meg. "I´ll get on it right away. Is there anything else I can do to help?"

"Oh, Meg, you don´t know how grateful I am that you´re doing this much for me. No, don´t worry, I´ll manage this," she said with as much conviction as she could muster.

"What are you going to do?" asked Meg.

Christine hestitated. "I don´t know," she finally said.

There was another pause.

"I see. Well, I´ll just call Jerkface and get right back to you – I´m sure he´s fine," Meg said with a brightness which sounded forced.

* * *

Raoul had just finished his third beer when the phone rang.

"Hey, Jerk, are you alive?" saluted a feminine voice which he vaguely recognized.

"Um, Chelsea´s not home yet," Raoul offered, certain that the caller sought his wife and not himself.

"Still as big a doofus as ever, I see," observed Meg.

"I´m sorry….Who is this?" asked Raoul.

"Let me jog your memory. About five foot seven, flaming red hair, total pain in the ass…?"

"Oh! Meg!" said Raoul, brightening. _Christine´s friend!_

"Bingo. Look, Raoul, I don´t know what you did to Christine at the Cit the other day, but whatever it was, it´s driven her husband totally berserk. He´s even locked her in the bedroom! Anyway, she was worried he might do something to hurt you, so consider yourself warned. Capiche?"

"Oh. Jesus," said Raoul, running his hand through his hair. "Is Christine okay?"

"She´s fine, it´s just a spat. And I know you don´t need me to tell you to stay away from her, right?" Meg asked, sharply.

"Um….right," said Raoul, but his mind was already racing, assisted in large part by the beers he had just consumed. As he hung up it dawned on him that here, finally, was his golden opportunity to redeem himself to Christine! He felt that time was of the essence; he could think over _how, _exactly, he planned to rescue Christine from her locked bedroom and her ogre of a husband later. He picked up his car keys.

* * *

Christine had just completed her graceless descent from the window when her cellphone rang.

"Jerkface is a-okay and enjoying a few brews in front of the TV, if I´m any judge," said Meg cheerfully.

Christine felt faint with relief. _He´s kept his promise. _"Oh, my gosh, thank you so very much, Meg! You don´t know how much this means to me!" she rasped.

"You sure you´re okay?"

"Yeah…yes, Meg. Don´t worry. Things can get pretty weird with us sometimes, but we always muddle through."

"I know. Erik would never hurt you. But give him hell for locking you in, okay? That is a definite no-no…." Meg´s voice drifted into the distance suddenly, and Christine heard her speaking quickly to someone in the kitchen: "No, not like that, not like that…wait a minute and I´ll show you."

"Meg?" said Christine. "Look, I´ll call you in the morning, okay?"

"Yeah, honey, you do that. I´ll come over with the FBI if you don´t, you hear?"

"Understood."

Christine put the phone in her pocket and took her bearings. She had been wandering about the garden as she spoke with Meg and was now in the apple orchard: seven apple trees now, most of them in full bloom.

A sense of calm lulled Christine as she contemplated the trees by the light of the full moon. Erik had not harmed Raoul, and although she was very angry with him for his imprisoning her, she knew that she had cause for hope, and even for happiness now.

_If only I could find a way to reach Erik,_ she thought. His lack of trust in her was clearer than ever now, and it saddened her.

Then she thought of the love and the overwhelming passion that filled her marriage. Could love exist without trust? Evidently so, because Erik loved her a great deal. Their situation puzzled her. _I need to speak with Nadir! _

A more immediate question was what to do now. She had escaped from the bedroom as planned, but that was all she had planned: to escape from the bedroom. She was not so foolish as to think she could evade Erik for more than a short while. Her sole purpose was to defy him. _I´ll just slip in through the back door,_ she thought. She was looking forward to extracting some kind of a reaction from him – anything, even hostility.

Christine had wandered past the apple trees to the apiary the gardener had established at the orchard´s edge. There were three beehives, now raised on stands because of Pepé le Pew´s assaults on them. And there, puffed up and looking at her warily, was Pepé himself.

Pepé was a striped skunk who had first been spotted on the back porch sharing a bowl of cat food with Kee. The tabby had not seemed to mind the company, but Mrs. Donovan had been horrified and moved the cat´s kibble indoors. James and Miles had been delighted and had promptly named the skunk after a favourite cartoon character.

"But you don´t even know whether he´s a male!" Christine had laughed, but the name stuck, regardless.

Although Pepé had never reappeared in person, evidence of him had. He had attacked the gardener´s apiary, chewing and sucking on the poor bees and then leaving their carcasses scattered around. When the children begged the gardener not to kill the skunk, he relented and arrived at a solution to the problem. The hives were now on stands, well out of the skunk´s reach.

Now Christine was staring at Pepé, who was staring right back with frank hostility. She backed away slowly, turned, and ran as swiftly as she could toward the house. The shadows near some cedars lengthened suddenly, and she was caught in their iron embrace.

"Where do you think you are going?" snarled Erik. His amber eyes blazed in the moonlight, and sinister shadows played on the bone-white surface of his mask.

Christine set about laying his fears to rest. Part of her fluttered, but she met his stare steadily. "Well, now that I´m _out of the bedroom_ I think I´ll go to the kitchen for some camomile tea. My nerves are about shot." She glanced briefly at the bedroom´s Oriel window; the sheets which had aided her escape fluttered in the night breeze like an accusation. _Why should I feel guilty?_ The thought stirred her anger.

Erik interrupted her thoughts. "Why were you running?" His eyes scrutinized hers.

"I have seen Pepé le Pew, and he has seen me," she snarled, even angrier now that she was on the defensive.

Erik´s mouth quirked up slightly in amusement even as his eyes reflected satisfaction that Christine was telling the truth. Even through the red mist of her anger, Christine noticed that Erik was himself again, and she felt his arms relax around her slightly. She wondered what had happened to bring about this welcome change in his demeanor.

"So, you´re willing to speak to me now," she said, wrenching herself out of Erik´s grasp and backing away to regard him from a distance. In spite of herself, she thrilled at how his eyes glowed against the backdrop of the night´s darkness. She looked down to avoid his gaze.

"Why did you fail to tell me of de Chagny´s presence at the Cit?" hissed Erik. A cool hand lifted Christine´s chin so that her eyes were forced to meet his.

"Why did you refuse to speak to me for days and even lock me into our bedroom?" retorted Christine. "If I didn´t tell you about Raoul, it was because I was afraid you would overreact. Gee, I wonder why?"

Erik absorbed this quietly, his eyes still searching Christine´s. He seemed to find what he wanted within her gaze, and as his peace returned, he pulled her to himself once more.

Christine was by no means at peace, however, and struggled against her husband. To her exasperation, he refused to let her go. There was a hunger in his eyes which she knew well, but for the first time in her married life she refused to yield to it. She felt a sudden, infantile urge to step on his immaculately-shod foot, but she resisted it.

To her increased ire, Erik seemed amused by her resistance.

"Come with me, Christine," he said, and his tones were irresistibly soft and enticing – _spun glass; so soft, but it can cut!_ "We can speak comfortably indoors…"

"No," said Christine. Erik looked at her, his eyes fascinated. _Oh, he knows how to goad me!_

"I´m not certain I heard you correctly," Erik purred. "I _think _you said ´no´?"

"Oh, you heard me correctly, all right!" Christine spat. She managed to twist herself out of Erik´s grasp somewhat, but it was only because he had positioned one arm under her knees now. He lifted her into his arms as she struggled, pausing only to kiss her deeply. She resisted, trying to ignore the fire he ignited within her which, maddeningly, counteracted the resentment she nursed. She continued to struggle.

Erik carried her into the house and upstairs, even as she fought him, seemingly without effort.

* * *

Raoul surveyed the garden from his position near a grove of cedars. It had been a struggle to get over the imposing wrought-iron fence which encompassed the Darrow property, but he had done it. He also congratulated himself on avoiding the security guard near the gate; so far, no one had been alerted to his presence. He looked down. He had ripped his pants at the knee in the process of scaling the fence, but that was of little importance. He would bandage his bloody leg later.

He scrutinized the mansion, wondering which window belonged to the master bedroom. He could not help but admire the architecture as he scanned the building – _a mansard roof, dormer windows, lots of bay windows, and that porch…American Second Empire, I think._ He froze. What was that hanging from one of the windows off to the side? He squinted, hoping to see better. _Sheets! Christine´s trying to escape! _

Raoul stumbled forward and hurried toward the mansion. After gaining a fair distance of ground, he nearly stumbled into something. _A beehive? _ The trees obscured the moonlight. As Raoul paused to let his eyes adjust to the darkness, he noticed something white…white on black?

Pepé le Pew observed Raoul indignantly. Within the confines of his limited consciousness, his perception was that he had had a very bad week. The cat food, which he had thoroughly enjoyed, had disappeared from the back porch; it was mating season, and he had not encountered a single female (Pepé _was,_ in fact, a male); the hives of juicy bees which he had so enjoyed had mysteriously lifted themselves out of range, and remained that way night after night; and, finally, two humans had very nearly stepped on him during the course of one evening. This one was definitely the worst of the two, since he stood there staring and would not go away. Turning swiftly, Pepé directed a volley at the stupid human from both barrels.

* * *

Christine lay nestled in the blankets Erik had provided her. She drowsed, her anger forgotten: vigorous lovemaking had left her exhausted, both mentally and physically. _Why do I always give in to him?, _she wondered to herself. She berated herself for having no pride, but how could she hold on to her own pride when Erik surrendered his own so completely? His whispered words could still make her blush.

A terrible stench interrupted Christine´s sleepy reverie, and she awakened gradually. Erik was standing at the window, completely nude, contemplating the garden. Christine noticed appreciatively how the moonlight fell on his muscular form. He turned to look at her, a smile playing about his lips.

"Erik…that _smell_," murmured Christine, propping herself up on her elbows.

Erik moved to her side, bending over her to stroke her cheek, then a bare shoulder.

"Nothing to worry about, my love…Pepé was just expressing himself. I must admit that, although I find him disgusting, the creature has his merits."


	33. Chapter 33

**My eternal gratitude to those who have reviewed -- you make my day!**

**I do not own POTO, or its characters.**

* * *

The phone rang the next morning, awakening Christine. She listened as Erik conversed quietly with someone on their security staff.

"No, no, don´t worry about it," she heard him say. "We don´t need the police, but I advise you, in future, to watch the southern side of our property better. If we need to take on more personnel for that purpose, we shall do so."

Erik became aware that she was awake, and his voice was suddenly soft and gentle, even as he finished his telephone conversation. _That should certainly confuse Security,_ Christine thought, as she drifted into slumber once more.

When she awakened, she found Erik propped on his elbow, watching her with his habitual intensity.

"Security problem?" Christine murmured, remembering the telephone conversation.

"There was an intruder in our garden last night, and it appears that he suffered an unpleasant encounter with Pepé. He removed his shirt, for obvious reasons, and Security found it in the garden…"

Christine was shocked. "That´s kind of scary. We were in the garden ourselves, just last night," she added, blushing at the memory. "I hope it won´t happen again. I think Pepé deserves a nice bowl of cat food."

"I could not agree with you more completely," replied Erik, his eyes never leaving hers. Christine wondered why he was not more upset about the security breach, but became distracted from her own thoughts as she watched Erik cross the room – still nude, which caused her heart to flutter – and search her purse for her cellphone. She felt irritation rise within her as he examined it, then closed it. He stood, his eyes distant for the moment, and Christine chose to say nothing.

"You have been concerned that I might do violence to Mr. de Chagny," Erik said, cutting into the morning silence in sudden tones of cold contempt.

Christine regarded him in astonishment, her anger rising once more. Had he listened to her conversation with Meg?

Erik sensed her confusion.

"I am aware of the telephone call your friend made to Mr. de Chagny last night. You would not dare call him yourself, of course.

"You see, I have taken the liberty of tapping de Chagny´s telephone – among other things. I have very little patience with him lately. It is true enough that he heads the auditing team reviewing the Cit´s accounts, but his business there should have concluded by now. I am certain," Erik snarled, "that his proximity to you has caused him to linger, but there is something else. It seems that Mr. Rooney has been embezzling a great deal of money from the Cit´s accounts during these past few years. De Chagny has discovered this, but for some reason he failed to report this upon discovering it and is actively hiding evidence of it from his own team.

"De Chagny would never willingly work in league with someone like Rooney, whom he considers to be beneath him. He also considers the acceptance of bribes to be beneath him. Therefore, the only tactic which could persuade de Chagny to assist Mr. Rooney in his crime would be blackmail."

Erik fixed a cold, penetrating gaze on Christine.

"Now, what _material _could Mr. Rooney possibly have at his disposal with which to blackmail Mr. de Chagny?"

Christine gasped at the implications of this question and its accusatory tone. She felt the heat of anger rush to her head, her blood pounding, and she drew the blankets closer to her body. Erik´s eyes took in her every movement.

"I have _never _done anything to betray you, nor would I _ever_ do anything to betray you. Our lives together…"

"Our _life _together," corrected Erik, musing. "No, I do not believe you would _do_ anything to betray me, but I wonder how _receptive _you might be if de Chagny were to present you with the opportunity…"

"How _dare _you," hissed Christine. "You´re calling me a slut!"

Erik winced. "I have done no such thing. You misunderstand me completely."

He hesitated, then continued.

"It is your heart which worries me. What shared memories could de Chagny appeal to in order to open its doors to him once more? I do not doubt that you care for me, Christine, but I want no other man in your heart but myself…"

"I love only you!" exploded Christine, beside herself with outrage. "What has gotten into you? First you´re cold to me and _lock me into the bedroom _as if you´re lord and master, then – last night – you act like yourself again, and everything´s fine between us. Now this! What is _wrong _with you? Why do I feel as if I´m dealing with two different people?"

"Because," said Erik, approaching her, "I am divided. I am frightened, very frightened of you. You are everything to me, yet you drive me to madness by hiding things from me. Your mind is unfathomable and your heart a mystery. I thought I might be able to control you, but you have grown and changed so much that, just when I have thought you to be in my grasp, you escape me. You fascinate and torture me, and now – _now! – _Mr. de Chagny is back in close proximity, and I cannot kill him, because I will lose you forever!"

As he said this, he removed the blankets which covered Christine and enfolded her in his arms, his embrace stiff and desperate. The sheets she had used to escape last night lay in a pile on the floor, still knotted and twisted.

Erik´s voice was a whisper now, and he added, "Another part of me – perhaps the stronger part – clings to hope. My need for you is so great that I grasp at every bit of evidence that you might truly be mine, in spite of what you keep from me. Nadir feeds me hope, and I believe him because I need to believe him. And I cease to care about my doubts and remember only the happiness you have brought me, because my love for you eclipses everything. This is the truth. Forgive me, Christine."

* * *

Raoul sat in a bathtub filled with warm water mixed with vinegar. His injured knee stung somewhat, but he ignored it stoically. He could hear Chelsea in the living room, where she was lighting as many of her aromatherapy candles as she could. They were ugly bergamot-lime scented candles, and they were supposed to promote insight, according to Chelsea. _Insight. _

"What the _hell _is that awful smell?" wailed Chelsea. She came to the bathroom door and stared at Raoul as he sat soaking.

"Raoul, you _stink_! Why?"

Raoul stared back at her, thinking about how to interpret her question.

"Ran into a skunk last night," he muttered, finally.

Chelsea brightened and held up an index finger. "Wait right here!" she chirped, and exited quickly.

Raoul knew what his wife was doing. She was calling her spiritual guide, a 2000-year-old druid named Aerach who was currently being channelled by Tawny Smith, a perky hairdresser-cum-nail artist. Aerach had started by giving Chelsea advice on how to manage her marriage and friendships. The counsel provided had progressed from personal matters to more mundane problems, such as staying on budget and what color to paint the bedroom. It was amazing what knowledge Aerach had accumulated over the course of 2000 years.

"Aerach says tomato juice!" said Chelsea, as she reappeared, satisfied, in the doorway. "I´ll just run down to the store and buy about five gallons of it, ´kay? Be right back," she called, hurrying to the foyer and out the door.

Raoul sighed as he dried himself off. He put on a bathrobe and went to the fireplace, where he had placed last night´s clothes. He sprinkled fluid on the mess and lit a match to it, watching as his jeans, underwear and socks slowly ignited and burned. The stench was nearly unbearable, but there was an odd satisfaction in watching the clothes turn to ash.

* * *

_Thank goodness it´s Saturday,_ thought Christine as she watched Erik with their children. The love-truce which existed between her husband and herself had brought Erik back to full consciousness, and he now focused on his children as actively as ever.

Miles had been the first to run to Erik, and, in a hopeful voice, had started.

"_Miles, milites_…?" he inquired.

"..._militis, militum_... ?" prompted his father in return, smiling and scooping him into his arms.

"…_militi, militibus_…" continued Miles, overjoyed, and so they continued.

It was their morning ritual. Erik knew no nursery rhymes, for some reason, and instead chose to entertain his son by taking his name and declining it in Latin. Miles was much more gifted than his brother at all things verbal and seemed to enjoy the exercise. More than anything, however, he delighted in his father´s warmth.

Now Christine watched as Erik worked on the Eiffel Tower with James. The Eiffel Tower was a project, now half-finished, which they had started together several weeks ago. Christine did not know how many boxes of erector sets they were using, but the tower was three feet tall and, thus far, admirably executed with Erik as construction manager. The two conversed with each other in low murmurs as they worked, their heads very close together.

_All´s well with the world_, Christine observed as she went to the kitchen to bring snacks and coffee.

Erik glanced at her as she left, communicating his awareness of her wordlessly.

* * *

Monday came, and the Cit was immersed in activity; it was now the final week before the première of _Persephone_, and there were to be various rehearsals with the orchestra before the final dress rehearsal. Costumes and sets were finished now, and dressing rooms assigned.

Most of the Cit´s performers were eager to get on with last-minute fittings, but Krystine Castro was not. She was incensed because her usual dressing room was unavailable.

"_Why?_" she hissed.

George Yoo shifted in his chair uncomfortably. "Because Mr. Rooney wants it for an office, and he´s the CFO," he said.

"Well, he may be the CFO, but he´s an SOB," snapped Ms. Castro, and she was somewhat mollified when people laughed dutifully at her attempt at humor.

"Dressing room 312 isn´t available, but number 316 is larger now, anyway, since last year´s remodeling. Why don´t you use that one?" suggested George. "It´s much more comfortable and would suit your status very well."

Christine sighed. Room 316 was the dressing room which had been assigned to _her_, and everyone knew it. Ms. Castro would never be able to resist this invitation to snub her.

"Ah," said Ms. Castro, appearing to weigh the option presented her. "It´s not the room I´m accustomed to, you know," -- she seemed to be in the throes of some heroic sacrifice -- "but I´m a professional, after all, and I would never wish to cause problems. Very well. I´ll take it!"

All eyes turned to Christine, the air thick with gaping curiosity. How would the infamous little outsider react?

"Oh, that´s just fine – I don´t mind getting another one," she said breezily, and was happy to see that she had succeeded in disappointing the crowd. She pretended to be reading an arts magazine which she had picked up, and sat slowly down as, absorbed, she turned a page.

The group dispersed quietly, but Christine noticed a movement beside her as Ms. Castro sat down in a chair. She looked up, surprised, since Ms. Castro had done her best to ignore or avoid her for weeks.

"I don´t really mean to be unpleasant, you know," she started quietly.

"You´re not," Christine lied reflexively.

Ms. Castro sighed, and spent several long moments looking at the stage. The Tartarus set for _Persephone _was a masterpiece of hellish orange-on-black phosphorescence; it seemed to burn the eyes.

"You know this represents the end of my career, don´t you?" Ms. Castro murmured in confidential tones.

Christine was startled. "The end of your career?"

"To be replaced as the leading lady by someone of your youth, you understand, is a humiliation that no career like mine can survive. Oh, I understand your situation," she added, as Christine began to say something. "Your husband tailored this work to your voice, every last bar. Even the orchestration plays against its timbre perfectly. I may be ´over-the-top´ and theatrical, but don´t forget I´m a musician, too.

"You have a voice unlike any other, and your husband happens to be a composer. Well, I have no husband-composer to worship _my _voice with his music, and I never will.

"What I have are three ex-husbands who owe me money, plus a dead sister who left me with five nieces and nephews. Two are drunks, one just came out of rehab, and the other two are problematic minors. Some days I just don´t know what I´ll do," she said, dabbing at her eyes, "and now _this!_" she added, moving her hand in a sweeping gesture which included Christine and the stage.

Before Christine could say anything, Ms. Castro had risen and hurried out of the performance hall. She moved to follow her, but Erik´s hand on her elbow stopped her.

"Erik…" she started, but he put a finger on her lips.

"Ms. Castro has three wealthy ex-husbands. One of them split his fortune with her, another pays her alimony regularly, and the third put everything in her name and therefore lost everything to her when they divorced. She has no siblings, living or dead, and no nieces or nephews. The two nephews she has by marriage are both stock brokers."

Christine´s jaw dropped in amazement. "Why, that…woman…! That _woman_!" she seethed.

"Exactly," agreed Erik, smiling at her incredulity. "It would seem she wants your role rather badly."

* * *

Christine emerged, exhausted, from her dressing room. Though it was not as nice as Ms. Castro´s, she found it perfectly acceptable, and she had implored Erik to let the situation stand.

A strong odor assaulted her nostrils, and she looked to the side to find its source: Raoul.

She stopped in amazement as the pieces of a puzzle fell into place. He hurried toward her, even as she started to move away from him, alarmed.

"Christine," Raoul called after her. "Are you all right? Meg called me the other night…"

"You were _in our garden_!" she hissed, whirling on him. "What possessed you to do something like that?"

"I thought you needed my help," he said helplessly. The skunk odor wafted towards Christine, who took a step back and into Erik. Raoul froze, but Erik merely delivered Raoul a look of warning and quickly disappeared down the hallway with his wife.

From another vantage point, Paul Rooney turned and entered his office. He had seen the entire episode, and he was not happy. He had everything in place now – passports, money, even a false ID -- and he would be leaving the country on the night of the opera´s première. He did not need de Chagny to become reckless just as he was about to realize his dearest dream.

He took out a key and opened one of his desk drawers, revealing the pistol he had stashed there. It was an 8mm and would serve him well if de Chagny got in his way. No one would stop him now. He closed the drawer, satisfied, and locked it.


	34. Chapter 34

**A thousand blessings on all those who have reviewed!**

**I think it will be only one or two more chapters before this story is finished. I´m hoping to have it done before vacation.**

**I do not own POTO, or its characters.**

* * *

The staging rehearsal was underway, and Christine did her best to hide her nervousness. She felt the absurdity of her situation keenly. Erik had reduced the rest of the cast to unfailing politeness, but she was a first-time performer among seasoned veterans, and she knew that people were biting back acrid comments. Her acting abilities were more than questionable, and her mettle as a singer had never been tested before an audience.

When the cast had started rehearsals with the orchestra, Christine had nearly fainted. Erik had written passion and percussion into his opera, and the boom and roar rattled the boards of the stage and left her feeling tiny. Krystine Castro, on the other hand, appeared to _own _the stage, and she made it clear that she was big enough for any role. Nothing intimidated such a seasoned performer.

Ms. Castro seemed to sense Christine´s state of mind, and would often approach her and inquire, "Are you all right, dear?" in a syrupy voice designed to exacerbate her nervous state.

Up until now, Christine had risen to the occasion and had sung well. Even her dramatic abilities opposite Robert Brennan´s Hades were acceptable, but only because she imagined him to be Erik. She nearly smirked at the irony of the situation – if only Erik knew she dreamed of him! Robert, however, made a terribly unimposing Hades, and even seemed frightened of Christine´s Persephone. Christine had wondered at the fact that George Yoo never corrected Robert´s lack of passion. Then she overheard the reason for the tenor´s terror of her: _"I don´t envyRobert, you know; I mean, that´s Darrow´s _wife_, and he won´t let him forget it; they say he turned up in his dressing room..." _Christine had strained to hear the rest, but failed. She could only wonder what Erik had said or done to poor Robert Brennan.

She pushed thoughts of her husband´s insecurity to the back of her mind. She would have to deal with _that _later. Her more immediate problem was not disappointing him on stage, and she would do her best.

Christine had never told her husband of her terrible problems with stage fright. _I was too busy hiding the fact that I can´t act_, she thought to herself wryly. As she completed a scene of passionate conflict involving Hades, Adonis, and Persephone, she looked out at the theater…._and all those seats, which will be filled with people. _There were some staff and cast members seated randomly in the front, and when she saw a flash of red hair, her heart leaped: Meg!

When George called a break, Christine nearly flew toward Meg, as starved as she was for a bit of friendship. She slowed her pace as she came nearer and noticed that Meg´s expression was grim.

"I think you´d better see this," said Meg, offering her a local arts magazine and pointing to an article headlined "Sins of the Cit: will financial mismanagement and pandering to donors be the end of the City Opera?"

As Christine read the article, her heart sank. It was an in-depth exposé of errors and possible larceny attributed to opera management, with the scathing conclusion that the Cit was now operating in the red. Several Cit executives were named, but Christine was surprised to see that Paul Rooney was not mentioned.

The article went on to suggest that _Persephone _was an indulgence permitted the egocentric and capricious billionaire-composer Erik Darrow because of his status as the Cit´s principal donor. His wife, who had absolutely no experience in opera or even conservatory studies, had been given the principal role, and anonymous cast members had attested to her underwhelming talent as a singer and actress.

Christine found the final paragraphs to be the most damning. They contained a short account of her sudden marriage years before to the reclusive Erik Darrow and mentioned a prior relationship with Raoul de Chagny, whose very name implied wealth in the city. She was painted as a cunning arriviste whose talents were better applied in the boudoir than on the stage.

"Oh, Meg," she sighed.

"I know, I know," said Meg. "I´m sorry to bring you bad news, but you needed to know. Do you suppose Erik knows about this?"

"He _pays _people to report things like this to him, Meg," said Christine. "I´m surprised that the magazine would dare to print such an article."

She glanced about the hall and intercepted more than one furtive glance in her direction. She had become accustomed to such things, though. She thought about the article and realized, with sadness, that people truly saw her as a scheming social climber; perhaps they always would. Erik´s tendency to isolate and protect her over the years had insulated her from this unpleasant knowledge, but now it had manifested itself in all its ugly reality.

Christine stared at a photograph which accompanied the article. It had been taken as she and Erik were arriving at the latest Charity Ball. She was in the foreground, but Erik´s indistinct figure loomed behind her. The camera had caught him in the act of reaching for her, and some trick of the flash had turned his eyes into flaming sockets. He looked like the devil incarnate.

"That´s a pretty creepy photograph, isn´t it?" commented Meg grimly. "They´ve really done a job on the both of you."

"They´re trying to sink Erik´s opera before its première. I wonder who would do such a thing?" mused Christine, her eyes on Krystine Castro, who was chatting animatedly with a group of people near the stage.

The rest of the rehearsal was disheartening. Hades kidnapped, seduced, dominated and terrified a Persephone who seemed to terrify _him;_ Persephone produced a half-hearted and passionless attempt at seducing a cowering Adonis; and Demeter strutted the stage in a passionate, very _over-the-top_ attempt to recover her lost daughter. George Yoo was tearing at his hair again by the time he gave up and dismissed the cast.

* * *

Christine entered her dressing room and shut the door behind her. With her back to the wall and her eyes squeezed shut, she took a deep breath and began to say everything she had been holding within herself.

"I´m worthless as an actress and I have a case of stage fright which threatens to affect even my voice. Robert´s scared of me, Ms. Castro and her fan club hate me, and they´ve just written a poisonous magazine article about us. I hate the very idea of performing in front of people. I don´t want to seduce Adonis. I want to go home!"

There. She had said it. She opened her eyes and nearly screamed at the sight before her.

Erik was standing there looking at her, as she expected, but he was dressed as Hades. He looked absolutely satanic in the black, red, orange and yellow color scheme which seemed to alternately glow and sink into shadow. The most striking part of the costume was a mask which covered his upper face and left his chin exposed. His eyes stood out from within its dark depths like twin flames, and the effect was terrifying.

She had seen the slightly pot-bellied Robert Brennan in the same costume, yet the psychological results had been quite different.

Erik smiled slightly at Christine´s reaction to him as he escorted her to an armchair and pulled her into his lap.

"There," he said, helping to smooth her skirt, then stroking her hair. "You needn´t fear, you know," he said quietly. "I would never permit you to be thrown to the wolves. Everything is arranged. _I_ shall be playing Hades on your first and only night as Persephone."

"First and only night?" Christine responded in confusion.

"I have seen that you have no taste for performing. I regret that you have suffered so, and I will ask you to perform in my opera once – only once, so that the entire city will know the truth about you and my music.

"Brennan is an acceptable performer, but I will not have him onstage with his hands all over you. I shall be singing the role of Hades this one night opposite your Persephone -- although I have observed that you do an excellent job opposite Mr. Brennan," he added, with a touch of resentment in his voice which Christine chose to ignore.

"Who will be singing the principal roles afterwards?" asked Christine.

"Ms. Castro and Mr. Brennan," said Erik, grimacing slightly.

"And Demeter?"

"Katherine Hughes will suffice."

Katherine Hughes was a promising young soprano who understudied both Persephone and Demeter. Christine was surprised that Katherine was not being placed in the principal role.

"I have an agreement with Ms. Castro," Erik said, seeming to guess at Christine´s train of thought.

"What kind of an agreement?"

"You will know later," he said, his tone of voice closing the door to further questions.

Christine was silent a moment, thinking, as Erik continued to hold her and stroke her hair.

There was a quick tap at the door, a mere formality, because the door opened at the same instant and Meg bustled in with a costume.

"Hey, I told them I wouldn´t mind schlepping this to you…." She stopped as she saw the couple seated in the armchair.

"Holy shit, Christine!" she said, dissolving into laughter. "Look at what´s got a hold of _you_!"

"Yeah, I know," replied Christine, and added brightly, "He´s Hades!"

"No comment," said Meg, even as Erik started to smile dangerously.

* * *

Christine peeked out at the audience and shuddered. The magazine article had done nothing to dissuade people from attending _Persephone_´s première. In fact, there was a full house; not a seat was empty. Christine could imagine the hostile curiosity that the recent unwelcome publicity had excited, and she could not help feeling uneasy.

She picked at her costume´s fabric: virginal white, appropriate for the innocent Persephone – _and appropriate for any soprano about to be sacrificed to an angry mob_, she thought ruefully.

She felt Erik´s hands on her shoulders, and turned to offer him a weak smile.

"Divine," he purred, turning her about to look at her.

"How I wish!" she responded tremulously, unable to hide her nervous state any longer. "I don´t know how I´m going to do this!"

"You shall see," Erik said. One last reassurance and embrace, and he was gone.

As the overture ended and Erik took the stage, Christine realized that her worries had been baseless. He dominated his surroundings, and every single person near him moved in perfect conjunction with him. The chorus members, chalk-white-on-gray Shades, formed the perfect backdrop to Erik´s fiery passion, and they ebbed and flowed to the dictates of his ethereal voice.

Christine _became_ Persephone as she gathered flowers and saw Hades for the first time and understood the depth of his passion – and was terrified. She trembled in Erik´s arms as he descended with her to Tartarus, and she sang of her pain and fear.

She forgot the audience entirely.

The only time Christine´s aplomb as an actress failed her was during the dreaded seduction-of-Adonis scene. She sang beautifully, and went through the motions of enticing Adonis to her, but she simply failed to _be _the adulterous Persephone. She was relieved when the scene changed and she faced Erik once more.

Katherine Hughes surpassed herself – and amazed Christine -- as the bereaved and vindictive Demeter, and she dared to sing her hatred of Hades with a cutting passion, even as she brought winter down on all the earth.

The opera´s pièce de résistance was "Most Rare and Amazing," the aria sung by Persephone to her husband upon discovering that she loved him. Christine found herself singing to Erik alone, and as he gazed at her, his wonder seemed real. They went into triumphant duet, lost in their music and in the happiness, and Christine noticed that Erik had tears in his eyes. She touched a finger to her face; it, too, was wet with her own tears.

The audience became real again, and its roar of approval overwhelmed Christine. She went into the wings to sit down, her eyes searching for Erik, but he had disappeared. The rest of the cast were hugging each other and chattering in excitement. Katherine Hughes found Christine and pulled her to the stage, where she received six curtain calls and a standing ovation. The audience´s adoration for Christine could be measured in decibels, but there was an unhappy murmur in the background – _where was that magnificent Hades?_

A loud popping noise from somewhere near the performance hall penetrated the noise, and as the applause died down, there was an uneasy muttering.

"That sounded like a pistol," someone commented, and Christine froze, her heart hammering in her chest. _Erik!_

She flew out of the performance hall toward the dressing rooms, and she noticed that most of the cast and crew were hurrying along behind her. As she approached Paul´s improvised office in Room 312, she noticed that several policemen were blocking it. Robert Brennan, in his street clothes, tried to enter, but he was stopped by two officers. One of them beckoned Christine, however.

"You´re Mrs. Darrow, aren´t you?" he asked.

Christine only nodded, her heart in her throat.

"You can go in."


	35. Chapter 35

**My heartfelt thanks to all who have reviewed, and my apologies for the cliffhanger. I hope this quick update helps to make up for the offense committed. I think that there should be only one chapter left after this one.**

**I do not own POTO, or its characters.**

* * *

Krystine Castro listened, hidden in the wings, as Christine sang "Most Rare and Amazing," which started out in pianissimo tones of wonder, only to crescendo to its full glory. She glanced out at the audience, which was listening, enraptured and unmoving. She could not hear a single cough. It was too late to hope that Christine would fail. Listening to her young rival singing Persephone´s aria – _my aria, it should have been MY aria!_ – was bitter stuff indeed for Krystine. It was hardly comforting that the aria would be hers to sing after tonight – now she would suffer humiliating comparisons to Christine Darrow whenever she sang it. She knew what people would say. She had been in the business long enough.

She glanced at Hades, and her resentment increased. Robert had not told her that he would be handing his role over to Darrow tonight. She listened to the murmuring backstage; never had anyone suspected what a magnificent voice the man possessed. Krystine had waited many a year for the privilege of hearing such perfection, and now that it had finally arrived, it was actively caressing _Christine Darrow_, not herself, in its tones of liquid velvet.

She sighed, checking her watch. Christine´s triumph was a disappointment, but she would overcome this obstacle if Erik Darrow kept his word. And she had heard that he _always_ kept his word. Now she must see to her part of the bargain.

Krystine Castro was about to put her talents as an actress to the test of a lifetime, but she knew she would succeed. She was a trouper – yes! -- and she was a winner. She left the wings and headed towards Paul Rooney´s office; she had an appointment to keep.

* * *

Raoul de Chagny left his seat in the performance hall quickly, trying his best not to disturb anyone. The audience seemed entranced, its eyes fixed on the stage, barely blinking. He had been entranced, himself, until Christine and Darrow had appeared onstage _together_ and had made their mutual love – their _erotic, yet spiritual_ attraction to each other – painfully clear. Was he the only one who found the quality of the tension between them disturbing?

Perhaps he was simply bitter. That could be the reason he was leaving before the final act was finished. _Yes,_ he admitted to himself, _I am bitter_…

He was interrupted in his thoughts by a touch at his elbow. He turned about to regard a teenager who, handing him a folded piece of paper, said, "You´re Mr. de Chagny, aren´t you, sir? I´m supposed to deliver this to you." She was gone immediately without another word.

Raoul could hear a deafening roar as he unfolded the note – the opera had ended. Blood pounded in his head as he read:

_I´m in Room 312, waiting for you._

_Christine_

It was Christine´s handwriting – no doubt about that. The possibilities swarmed through his mind. Perhaps she _did_ need his help, after all; perhaps she simply wanted to talk; or perhaps she wanted to warn him to stay away from her forever. It hardly mattered, because the fact remained that _she wanted to see him! _

Raoul made his way towards Room 312 – _the office! I hope Paul´s not there…_

He found the room unlocked, and he groped to turn on the light switch, then flipped it on and off various times. No luck. The light had obviously burned out, and the room was in darkness. He thought he felt something brush past him near the door and he jumped, but he could see nothing.

"Christine?" he whispered tentatively.

"I´m over here," a husky whisper answered from the corner of the room where the sofa was.

Raoul´s heart leaped, and he moved toward the source of the voice, nearly tripping over a wastebasket on the way. He guessed at where the sofa was and sank onto it gratefully.

"Ouch! Get off of me!" the voice rasped painfully, and Raoul jumped up as if burned.

"Sorry," he murmured, his hands searching for Christine. He located what seemed to be a leg – her thigh? – and, finding no resistance, rested his hand on it.

"Christine, you can´t imagine how it feels to finally be able to talk with you. I thought you would never – well, you know…"

"Nothing matters except how we feel about each other, my darling, and our lives together. Tell me, are things ready? Have you transferred all the money?"

"Money?" asked Raoul. "What money? Wait a minute…Who are _you_?"

Raoul jumped up and away from the sofa, noisily kicking over the wastebasket in the process.

"Darling, it´s Krystine, your Krystine…What´s wrong? Where are you?"

Raoul rubbed his ankle. "You don't _sound_ like Christine! And what´s this talk about money?"

"The money you´ve _liberated _from the Cit´s accounts, Paul darling…"

"I´m _not _Paul. Who the hell are you, and where´s Christine?"

The voice was suddenly cold. "If you´re not Paul, who are _you_? And just _what _was your hand doing on my thigh?"

They were interrupted as the door opened and a hand groped at the light switch.

* * *

Paul Rooney was in his cups. He had been enjoying a few whiskeys – _one more for the road_, he had told himself after each whiskey – at his favorite bar and had tipped the bartender generously for the very first time. The look on the man´s face was priceless. Of course, he had struck out with the blonde at the end of the bar, but who needed _her_? He had a plane to catch, and there would be plenty of gorgeous women waiting for him in Georgetown.

He opened the door to the office, as intoxicated by his good luck as by his libations. Everything was on schedule, his jaw was now healed, the money was where he needed it, and his plane ticket was waiting in his office … and that de Chagny wimp had not exposed him. He could just see himself on a beach, basking in that sunlight…Wait. No light? He tried the switch once more. And had he left the door unlocked?

"Paul, darling…" a woman´s voice purred in the darkness.

Paul pulled out a cigarette lighter and examined the room. In its flickering light, he could make out a familiar face.

"Krystine? Oh, crap. Not you!"

"Oh, Paul, you´re too funny! Didn´t you know I´d be waiting for you?"

"You´re always waiting for your alimony, you vampire! What the hell are you doing here?"

"Don´t you remember what you told me the other night? What a night, Stud, what a night!" confided Krystine huskily.

Paul stood, drunk and confused, searching his memory for the night Krystine had mentioned. He could not recall any such evening, but he was loath to dismiss anything which flattered his manhood. Besides, his memory was not very reliable lately – he had awakened with a broken jaw some weeks ago and did not have the first notion of how it had happened.

"Oh…yeah…" he said, and swayed towards her, his lips hopeful and his hands at the ready.

Krystine seemed to float away from him.

"Now, Paul, you really should look at your watch. Isn´t it time for us to go?"

"Go?" he muttered, scratching his head.

"Yes, silly, we´re going to Guyana together, don´t you remember? With that wonderful money you´ve _appropriated _from the Cit?" Krystine murmured seductively.

"What the hell do _you_ know?" said Paul, sobering slightly.

"Why, Paul, don´t you remember? You told me everything…We have 497,202 dollars tucked away now, and we´re going to Guyana together to enjoy it … You even gave me the account numbers. This is going to be so romantic!"

"Like hell it is!" roared Paul drunkenly. "There´s no way you could know this, unless…" Another face swam into view through his drunken haze and the light of his lighter. "De Chagny! I´ll kill you, you son of a bitch! You told her everything, you bastard!" Paul stumbled toward the desk.

The lights suddenly came on, illuminating the room, and Paul stopped, his eyes adjusting to the brightness, and then screamed. Hades stood staring at him from the opposite end of the room near a mirror. At his side, incongruously, was a man in an expensive business suit. _Hell. I died and went to Hell. _

"I believe we have heard enough, don´t you, Mr. Phillips?" asked Erik politely, addressing the man at his side. His eyes scanned the room, and with exaggerated politeness, Erik added, "I would like to introduce Mr. Joel Phillips, our assistant district attorney. Mr. Phillips, I believe you know Mr. Rooney, Ms. Castro, and Mr. de Chagny…" He paused as he gazed at the figure dressed as a Shade from Tartarus in the corner of the room. "…and Mrs. de Chagny is here, as well, I see."

"I was trying to find Raoul," Chelsea explained.

"In that outfit?!" exploded Raoul, looking at her grey-and-white costume and makeup.

"They won´t let me back here if I´m just _me_," Chelsea whined.

The sound of applause from the performance hall, which had been in the background during the entire episode, was beginning to die down.

Paul Rooney stood behind his desk now, fingering his airline ticket to Georgetown. He seemed to be thinking, which required every ounce of energy and concentration he possessed.

"Mr. Rooney," said Mr. Phillips, "I believe you realize that, based on what I have witnessed here, I am obliged to arrest you and charge you with embezzlement…"

"De Chagny told you," snarled Paul. "It was de Chagny, the son of a bitch…!"

"Mr. Rooney…" started Mr. Phillips, confused, but Paul had pulled a pistol out of his desk drawer and was aiming it at Raoul.

Everyone in the room froze except Chelsea, who edged closer to Raoul. Erik´s eyes were alive with amused curiosity.

"This is it!" Paul screamed, his voice feral, as he pulled the trigger. The report was deafening.

Just as the shot was fired, Chelsea screamed and lunged in front of Raoul, blocking his body with her own. She stood with her eyes closed, clearly expecting a bullet … which never came. When she realized that she had not been hit, she turned around quickly to look at Raoul, who was standing, uninjured but astonished, behind her.

"You´re all right," she choked. "Thank God!" With this, she clutched at Raoul as he put out a tentative arm to embrace her.

Paul was staring at the pistol, realization dawning on him.

"Blanks, Mr. Rooney," said Erik, holding up a pistol for all to see. "You were looking for this, perhaps? Now, now, we wouldn´t want to hurt anybody, would we? Just in case you _might_, however, I took the precaution of substituting your little toy with the theater prop you hold in your hand. It makes a glorious noise, doesn´t it?"

The sound of alarmed voices and people running distracted Erik momentarily. "Would you please tell the police outside the door to permit my wife to enter? She may be worried…"

"Ah, yes," said Paul bitterly, "Darrow´s wife! Golly, de Chagny, how d´you think he´s gonna like _this_?" He produced his cellphone, pushed several buttons, and offered it to Erik.

Erik´s confident persona changed as he accepted the phone, his hand trembling slightly. Raoul observed that he resembled someone expecting a blow. As the images played across the small screen, Erik watched, absorbed. _"How could you?"_ Raoul heard Christine´s voice once more, tinny now, still reproachful.

If Paul had expected Erik to explode with anger, he was disappointed. Darrow´s reaction was a squaring of the shoulders and a slow – could it be triumphant? – smile. Erik stood, as cool and proud as ever.

Raoul understood the reason for Erik´s smile, and it was humiliating: Christine´s rejection of him was patent – not only verbally, but in her body language. The recording of this intimate scene was a monument to his complete and utter defeat.

"Well, de Chagny," Erik said in quiet amusement, "It appears that my wife cannot abide you. I suppose I should be angry with you for your arrogance, but I believe she herself put you in your place. Nonetheless, you have violated the terms of a certain agreement we have, and you shall be dealt with."

The door opened and Christine entered, her face white. Her eyes searched the tableau before her frantically, finally resting on Erik. Her sigh of relief was audible to everyone.

"Thank God!" she breathed, her hand unconsciously at her heart, her eyes never leaving her husband. Erik smiled and extended an arm in invitation as she went to him and threw her arms around him.

* * *

Mr. Phillips had left with the police; Paul had accompanied them in handcuffs.

"He will not keep a penny of the money he took," confided Erik to Christine. "I traced his transactions to the various foreign bank accounts he has been using. I could not go to the authorities myself with this information without raising certain questions about how I obtained it. That is where Ms. Castro has proven herself most invaluable. She was Mr. Rooney´s second wife, you know…"

"You´re joking! I´d never have dreamed it!" interjected Christine.

"Life can be curious. Although Mr. Rooney is really nothing more than an unpleasant memory to Ms. Castro, she was willing to play the role of the old flame rekindled. This promoted the illusion that she could easily have obtained such confidences from Mr. Rooney as bank account numbers, et cetera. Now she will be cooperating with Mr. Phillips in the successful prosecution of Mr. Rooney."

"All so that she can be Persephone?"

"Yes, indeed. She coveted the part even before she heard you sing. Now she will dedicate her entire artistic being to the impossible task of erasing the memory of the one, magical night when _you _made the role yours, forever."

Christine looked at Erik, tears in her eyes. So much to say… and so little intimacy. Raoul and Chelsea remained in the office with them, conversing with each other quietly.

"Why are _they_ here?" asked Christine.

Raoul overheard her, and rising to his feet, showed her the note.

"You wanted to see me, didn´t you?" he said, resentment in his tone.

"Holy Hannah!" exclaimed Christine, appalled. "That note´s got more lives than a cat!"

She turned to glare at Erik, who simply smiled and clasped her to himself. Her back was against his chest and his hands about her waist so that they both faced Raoul in a relaxed type of unity.

"I wanted you here, Mr. de Chagny, because I thought your presence might be of use. The note written by Christine – actually, to _me_ – was the easiest means at my disposal to have you here. I knew Rooney was blackmailing you, and I knew that _that_ was why you had not completed your audit and published your findings. You will notice that I am not having you arrested or prosecuted. You can thank Christine for that.

"It seems you have a wife who loves you, Mr. de Chagny. She has been worried about you, and has gone to great lengths to watch you from the shadows. I think, perhaps, that it may be time for you to take your marriage seriously."


	36. Chapter 36

**Well, I guess this is it! **

**I am so grateful to all those reviewers who have encouraged (and, at times, corrected) me. Thank you so much! **

**And my thanks to all who have read this story, too.**

**I do not own POTO, or its characters.**

* * *

_**Persephone **_**Seduces**

Joel Simmons, special to _The Times_

_I admit it. I was among many who had come to the première of _ Persephone _expecting to bury Christine Darrow, not to praise her. Those of us who have admired Krystine Castro for these many years were not prepared to see her upstaged by an upstart. We waited, cudgels in hand. I must note that Erik Darrow, the upstart´s husband, had been forgiven his part in this supposed sham from the very beginning. After all, he had given us _Gwydion_ and _The Fates and the Furies _as well as a great many orchestral works and various chamber pieces. Yes, we could forgive him anything! So we waited through _Persephone_´s brilliant overture for Christine Darrow to appear and receive the brunt of our wrath. _

_A miracle! __The goddess Persephone herself appeared in glorious lyric soprano and disarmed the entire audience – and we listened, amazed. This was no product of blind nepotism, but dazzling genius. The part required a greater range than Darrow´s other works and featured vocal acrobatics which Ms. Darrow executed with the greatest technical perfection this critic has ever heard... her dramatic prowess failed her only, surprisingly, in the form of an unconvincing seduction of Adonis…_

Christine´s eyes skimmed farther down, to where the critic mentioned Erik´s performance.

…_and the question which now burns in the minds of all who heard this tenor´s glorious voice is, "Who was he?" There have been wild rumors regarding his identity. One of the stranger theories suggests that Erik Darrow himself was the tenor who sang Hades. Such an extravagant idea must have its origins in the incredible chemistry which existed between Ms. Darrow and this mysterious Hades…_

"Such a shame you won´t take credit," murmured Christine, her head resting on Erik´s bare shoulder. The morning sunlight filtered in through the window, illuminating her husband´s unmasked features. She sat up and went absently through her morning ritual of massaging a soothing cream into his damaged skin, then gave the bad side of his face her customary kiss. His gaze, as intense as ever, never left her. _He´ll never learn to take me for granted,_ she thought to herself in wry gratitude.

This morning was to be spent in bed. Erik had decreed it, and Christine was all too happy to lose herself in him during these hours. His lovemaking was gentle and joyful now, interspersed with snatches of poetry in different languages. When his kisses were not erotic, he kissed her hands, his unshaven chin brushing her knuckles roughly, and played with her hair.

As they rested, Christine alternately stroking and massaging his skin, he sat up suddenly and embraced her, a touch of his old tension returning.

"I have been a fool, Christine. Please forgive me. You must know that I cannot change, however. I shall always fear losing you."

This was as close as he would come to speaking of the conflict which had existed between them until last night. Christine accepted his statement, resigned and silent, running her fingers through his hair as she thought. She could insist, as always, that she loved him and would never leave him, but his fear would always be stronger than his faith in her love. His fear – a permanent fixture from his past.

"We´ll have to live this down from day to day," she finally murmured. _There is no such thing as a perfect marriage, is there? And yet we are happy._

* * *

When Erik and Christine went downstairs to join their children, they found that Nadir had arrived and was chatting with Mrs. Donovan as the boys played. Christine was touched by Nadir´s devotion to his role as surrogate grandfather. These days, the majority of his visits were strictly social and had nothing to do with business.

As Mrs. Donovan went into the kitchen to prepare drinks, Nadir chatted quietly with Erik and Christine.

"I understand de Chagny is about to know the meaning of extreme poverty?" he inquired, fidgeting with a pair of Lego blocks.

"No," said Christine, "Erik decided to give Raoul a choice: extreme poverty or a transfer to Anchorage, Alaska. He and Chelsea chose Anchorage."

"The cold weather should bring that couple closer together, if only to keep warm," observed Nadir, smiling.

"That, and marriage counseling," Erik said, somewhat tartly. "I´m _requiring _that they seek it, now, rather than suggesting it. Mr. de Chagny´s marriage has better prospects than he suspects; perhaps common sense will finally guide him, and he will learn to be satisfied with his wife instead of seeking that which he cannot have."

Nadir nodded and looked distractedly towards the kitchen door. "I think I´d better help Mary bring those drinks," he said, and left the room to help.

"_Mary_?" said Christine, astonished. "How on earth did he manage to get on a first-name basis with Mrs. Donovan? I´ve known her for years, and she´s still ´Mrs. Donovan´ to me."

"She and Nadir have spent a great deal of time together being grandparents to our children. In fact, I suspect that they may be getting on quite well together…" Erik´s voice lowered suggestively at the end of his comment, and he invited Christine to approach the kitchen door with a quick gesture. As soon as they were both close enough to the door, Erik opened it quite suddenly, revealing Nadir and Mrs. Donovan immersed in a kiss. They pulled apart quickly, discomfited, their eyes directed at the floor – _two teenagers caught in the act_.

Erik and Christine stood frozen in the doorway – Erik with his arms crossed, and Christine clasping and unclasping her hands in nervous astonishment.

"Nadir," said Erik sternly, "I cannot have such things going on under my roof. We have been friends and associates a good many years, but I cannot have you pawing Mrs. Donovan…"

"He wasn´t _pawing_ Mrs. Donovan," protested Christine, shocked at her husband´s prudishness.

"Then what in Heaven´s name would _you_ call it?" retorted Erik, lifting a brow.

"Billing and cooing?" she ventured. "Certainly nothing serious, and I…"

"I disagree. It offends this household´s decorum – perhaps even its respectability. I despise issuing ultimatums; however -- Nadir, if you are not engaged to be married within the next hour, I will have no choice but to terminate your employment with me." This was said with such icy severity that even Christine, accustomed as she was to her husband´s extremes, shuddered. The color had drained from Mrs. Donovan´s face completely, and she stared at her employer, wide-eyed.

Erik shut the door in order to permit the couple some degree of privacy. Christine noticed that James and Miles were staring at them owlishly from the doorway at the other end of the dining room; they knew something was afoot.

"Erik," she ventured, "Don´t you think you´re taking this just a bit far?"

"Just give them time," Erik murmured, "and we shall see where this goes."

"What goes where?" asked James.

"Nadir and Mrs. Donovan…" started Christine.

"They like each other very much," interrupted James.

"It´s very _tragic_," pronounced Miles solemnly. He had developed the habit of using words whose sounds he liked before he learned their meanings.

"_That_, young man, is the wrong word for it. _Tragic _is derived from the word _tragedy, _and refers, in a nutshell, to a dramatic work which ends in death. Now, if you were to speak of _comedy…_" Erik instructed.

"Com-dy?" inquired Miles.

Just when Christine was certain she would scream, the kitchen door opened, and Nadir emerged. She was near enough to overhear his whispered conversation with Erik.

"It worked! She not only said yes, but she agreed to set a date! How can I ever thank you?" he said, beaming, as Erik gave him a congratulatory handshake.

"Erik," hissed Christine, "Did you two set Mrs. Donovan up? Did you? You did, didn´t you?"

Erik shushed her, an eye on the kitchen door, but Christine was beside herself. Nadir joined the children and ushered them quietly out of earshot.

"I can´t _believe_ this! Erik! You´ve done it _again!_ When will you stop marrying people off?"

"When you permit me to kill them instead," he murmured in her ear, smiling maliciously and nipping her neck with his teeth when he was certain no one was looking.

* * *

In the kitchen, Mrs. Donovan sat at a table, her legs still shaking with shock. Little by little, she began to absorb what had just happened, and she started to chortle, then to giggle uncontrollably. She did her best to stifle herself so no one could hear her, but gave up as she gave herself over to peals of laughter. _Why did I ever think myself old? Why, I´m nothing but a girl yet!_

* * *

No bridesmaids or groomsmen. No ringbearer. No gifts. No banquet. Just a simple ceremony – "an intimate celebration," as Nadir put it – with a select gathering of close friends, in the garden. The happy couple wanted nothing more. A table was set up on the patio for the wedding cake which Meg and Joe would be providing, along with punch and soft drinks appropriate for a morning wedding.

The Fates had gifted Nadir and Mrs. Donovan with a beautiful late-summer day, and Christine drank in the sunlight as she bustled about preparing things. Mrs. Donovan did not know what to do with herself, as accustomed as she was to making herself useful. Now she was ordered to relax and let others do all the work, and it disagreed with her character completely. She was incapable of sitting, and so she stood nervously in her unaccustomed trappings: her beige linen dress did not bear a single stain, and her salt-and-pepper hair, which she had always swept up into a bun, was now coiffed into gentle waves. She wore a discreet amount of makeup, too, and Christine thought she looked beautiful. She smiled to herself with the certainty that Nadir would agree.

Christine could hear James´ and Miles´ shouted greetings, and she knew that Meg and Joe had arrived. They appeared – Meg carried several bags, and Joe took the wedding cake to its place of honor at the table.

Christine opened the conversation with her friend with a direct question.

"Did you tell him?"

Meg smiled sheepishly. "Yeah, I told him last night, you know…"

"You see? It wasn´t _that_ awful, now, was it?"

"Are you kidding? Joe gets all goofy when he´s happy, and he kept me up all night! He wouldn´t stop trying to feed me things! Then he started talking about how I´ll look in a few months…" Meg picked at an invisible stain on her skirt and shuddered. "Seven more months of this, and I think I´ll go bonkers…"

Christine glanced at the shady edge of the apple grove, and noted with surprise that Erik was conversing there with Joe. Or, rather, that Joe was speaking animatedly to Erik while Erik listened, amused. The congratulatory handshake near the end of their conversation seemed to last an extremely long time, and Christine realized that it was because Joe was simply too distracted to stop. Erik said something to Joe, but the handshake continued, while Joe continued to speak. Finally, Erik grasped Joe by the offending wrist and gently removed his hand.

Meg and Christine exchanged a complicit glance, then burst into laughter. Christine put an arm about Meg´s shoulder, sobering.

"How are you feeling this morning?" she asked.

Meg brightened. "Better! No morning sickness this time, but I only had soda crackers for breakfast, like you told me. Joe was ready to force-feed me!"

"It´ll get better, just wait. Well, I see the guests are beginning to arrive!"

The two women interrupted their conversation reluctantly and began the business of greeting people and helping them to their seats.

* * *

Christine and Erik sat with their children in the folding chairs near the back, since Erik´s first impulse when surrounded by people was always to disappear. The sunlight-dappled shade seemed to suit him, however, and he relaxed and watched

James and Miles were watching Nadir and Mrs. Donovan, craning their necks, as the judge began the wedding ceremony. James stood up in order to see over people´s heads, while Miles climbed into his mother´s lap. Erik glanced at them, smiling slightly.

"So, is this still _tragic_, Miles?" Christine asked softly, smiling down at him.

"No-o-o-o-o…" he said, his index finger in his mouth.

"Of course not," murmured Erik, putting his arm around Christine and giving her slow, tender look. "Tragedies, as I was saying, are sad affairs which end in death. This would be a comedy. Comedies, you see, end with a wedding."

They quieted and listened; near an apple tree, laden now with fruit, Nadir and his Mary exchanged their vows.


End file.
